B9 


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BRUTE 
GODS 


NOVELS  BY  LOUIS  WILKINSON 

A  CHASTE  MAN 
THE  BUFFOON 
BRUTE  GODS 


LOUIS 
WILKINSON 


BRUTE 
GODS 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN    TUB    tTNITED    8TATS8    OT    AMERICA 


To 
GEORGE  MOOR 

Marking  the  Coming-of-Age 
Qf  an  Unbroken  Friendship. 

September  1897— September  1918 


2138961 


CONTENTS 

CONFUSIONS  9 
DISCLOSURES  157 
REFUGE  321 


CONFUSIONS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  terrible  calamity  fallen  upon  the  house 
of  Glaive  had  sent  the  master  of  that 
house  post-haste  to  his  lawyers  in  I^ondon. 
Mr.  Sidney  Starr  Glaive,  estate-agent  to  the  Marquis 
of  Yetminster,  had  never  been  so  baffled,  never  so 
deeply  angered,  never  so  humiliated.  He  had  pro- 
tracted his  absence  and  those  fruitless  but  sympa- 
thetic discussions  with  the  lawyers  for  a  considerably 
longer  time  than  was  warrantable,  except  by  his 
strong  disinclination  to  face  the  people  of  his  neigh- 
bourhood. His  younger  son  had  given  him  an  excuse 
for  delay.  The  boy  was  finishing  his  last  term  at 
school :  he  was  yet  to  be  informed  of  the  tragic  family 
event,  and  his  father  could  reasonably  wait  until  the 
term  ended,  meet  Alec  at  Paddington  Station  and 
break  the  news  to  him  as  they  travelled  down  to 
Suffolk  together. 

On  the  morning  after  this  return  Mr.  Glaive  was 
reading  Prayers.  He  addressed  his  two  sons,  his 
widowed  sister,  and  his  servants,  in  tones  of  com- 
bative assertion  of  dignity,  teased  and  pulled  at  by 
spleen.  He  was  consoled,  dimly,  by  his  sense  of  the 
drama  of  the  occasion,  by  the  jumping  and  stiffening 
of  his  response  to  the  scene — so  familiar,  those  kneel- 
ing domestic  figures,  under  his  presidency,  and  now 
that  empty  chair — ah! 

11 


12  BRUTE  GODS 

The  thought,  rushing,  caught  him :  how  carefully  he 
had  chosen  this  second  wife  of  his,  this  stepmother  for 
his  children!  He  had  chosen  her  for  her  tender- 
ness, for  her  soft  dependent  ways,  for  her  large  de- 
voted wistful  eyes  that  promised  him  the  straitest 
fidelity,  a  fidelity  almost  fanatical.  She  had  had 
such  a  sensitive  trustful  mouth,  the  lips  rather  tremu- 
lously apart.  He  had  been  old  enough  then,  this  little 
man  with  his  little  fierce  fires,  to  give  discretion 
the  whip-hand  of  mere  passion:  it  had  been  a  sage 
choice,  a  choice  guided  by  brain,  by  experience.  .  .  . 
So  now  it  was  not  alone  his  pride  of  property  that  was 
injured,  but  his  pride  of  judgment.  .  .  .  Mr.  Glaive 
choked.  Instantaneously  convinced  that  he  was  suf- 
fering from  the  emotion  of  a  strong  smitten  man, 
he  passed  his  Prayerbook  silently  to  his  elder  son. 
He  constrained  his  lips.  "A  motherless  home!" 
he  said  to  himself,  taking  comfort  in  the  appeal  of  the 
phrase. 

Mervyn  read  aloud  the  holy  words  as  rapidly  as 
lie  could.  He  was  extremely  hungry.  The  morn- 
ing's disorganization  had  delayed  Prayers  and  break- 
fast. Mr.  Glaive  watched  his  son  with  growing  irrita- 
tion. He  took  the  book  from  him,  just  as  the  boy  was 
beginning  a  new  prayer.  Mr.  Glaive  turned  the  page : 
"The  blessing  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,"  he  read  in 
a  vexed  dry  voice,  "the  love  of  God,  and" — he 
snapped  viciously  on — "the  fellowship  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  .  .  .  world  without  end,  Amen.  Johnson,  why 
are  you  here  ? ' ' 

The  under-gardener  had  already  opened  the  door. 


CONFUSIONS  13 

"Beg  pardon,  sir — "  He  hesitated  awkwardly. 
1 '  'Thought  as  I  might  fare  to  come  into  Prayers 
'smornin',  sir." 

"You  never  do.  I  mean  you  only  come  on  Sun- 
days. You  know  perfectly  well  that  only  the  maids 
attend  Prayers  on  week-days. ' ' 

"Yes,  sir.  Seemed  sort  o'  like  a  Sunday  today, 
sir." 

"You  can  go,  Johnson." 

' '  'Thought  he  'd  better  make  up  the  quorum,  I 
s'pose,"  Mervyn  whispered  to  his  younger  brother. 
There  was  silence  as  the  rest  of  the  servants  walked 
out  with  self-conscious  solemnity.  As  the  door  shut, 
Alec  heard,  faintly,  the  kitchenmaid 's  giggle.  It 
reminded  him  of  the  girl's  cousin,  "Frippie"  Clark, 
— she  had  been  christened  "Elfrida," — a  wench  of 
the  village.  The  boys'  aunt  kept  looking  over  her 
brother's  head,  with  nervous  glances  of  a  fretful 
reprobation  which  she  enjoyed. 

"What  beastly  weather."  Mervyn  fastened  the 
two  bottom  buttons  of  his  corduroy  waistcoat.  His 
father  gave  him  a  carefully  dramatic  glance  of  aus- 
terity tempered  by  grief.  Alec,  irritated  by  the 
thinned-out  discontent  that  his  aunt  cherished,  walked 
away  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  sat  down  in  the 
alcove,  by  the  small-sized  billiard-table.  Outside,  a 
sparse  rain,  weakly  persistent,  was  wetting  the  discon- 
solate Suffolk  landscape.  The  youth  turned  back, 
resting  his  eyes  on  the  legs  of  the  billiard-table.  He 
observed  Nature  no  more  closely  than  do  most  boys 
brought  up  in  the  country.  Mervyn,  joining  him. 


14  BRUTE  GODS 

whispered:  "Christ!  Nice  weather  for  an  elope- 
ment. ' ' 

"Shut  up."    Alec's  lip  trembled. 

"For  God's  sake  don't  go  and  have  a  fit  of  the 
giggles." 

"I'm  not.  Do  shut  up.— It's  bad  enough  the  way 
you  fool  in  Church.  You're  awful;  always  nearly 
making  me  laugh  in  the  middle  of  reading  the  Les- 
sons. ' ' 

"You  did,  that  last  time,  practically.  Your 
bloomin'  silly  voice  cracked.  Why  the  devil  don't 
you  have  more  self-control?  If  you  get  a  laughing- 
fit  now,  the  old  man '11  stick  the  bread-knife  into 
you." 

"Well,  you  shut  up,  and  I  won't  laugh." 

"  'Didn't  know  I  was  a  humourist." 

"Oh,  just  now  any  thing 'd  make  one  laugh,  with 
all  this  rumpus.  You  know  how  it  is." 

"That's  rich.  I  suppose  one's  Mater  runnin'  away 
with  a  chap  is  enough  to  make  a  cat  laugh,  any- 
how—" 

"Oh,  do  shut  up!"  Alec  smoothed  his  quivering 
mouth  with  his  hands,  turned  his  head,  and  gulped. 

"Come  to  breakfast,  you  boys!"  Mr.  Glaive  called 
them.  "What's  all  that  whispering  about?"  He 
shot  his  little  fired  eyes  from  one  to  the  other. 

"After  all,"  Mervyn  lowered  his  voice  still  more, 
"you  can  hardly  blame  the  Mater,  can  you?" 

"What's  that?" 

"Oh,  I'm  hungry,  that's  all." 

"Hungry?     That's  either  impertinence,  or  else  ut- 


CONFUSIONS  15 

ter  lack  of  feeling.  For  what  we  are  about  to  re- 
ceive, may  the  Lord  make  us  truly  thankful.  The 
fearful  blow  that  has  fallen  upon  us,  and  all  you  can 
think  about  is  whether  you're  hungry."  The  aunt 
put  her  bowl  of  porridge  from  her.  "I've  noticed 
that  your  self-indulgence  has  got  worse  and  worse 
ever  since  you  left  the  Army."  He  poured  cream 
into  his  porridge.  "You  could  rough  it  well  enough 
out  there,  couldn't  you?  Now  you  come  back  and 
you  want  to  turn  everything  into  a— er — into  a  veri- 
table sty  of  Epicurus." 

"Sort  of  a  garden  he  had,  though,  wasn't  it?" 
Mervyn  queried  vaguely.  Alec  was  in  agony. 

"The  general  atmosphere — the  general  atmosphere 
— is —  It's  altogether  unspeakable.  Moral  atmos- 
phere. The  amount  of  looseness,  of  vicious  self-in- 
dulgence. I  never  did  believe  that  it  was  the  right 
thing  for  women  to  go  earning  their  own  living. 
Why,  there  are  married  women  now — many  of  them 
— who  do  it.  Disgraceful — degrading  to  their  hus- 
bands. They'll  find  that  out,  soon  enough.  That's  a 
large  part  of  our  present  trouble." 

"Earning  her  own  living?"  Mrs.  Mowry,  the 
aunt,  looked  up,  deprecating.  "But,  my  dear  Sid- 
ney, surely  that  wasn't — " 

Her  brother  glared  at  her,  and  she  dropped  her 
spoon.  "I  can't  eat,"  she  remarked,  concentrating 
her  gaze  on  the  heavy  spoonful  of  porridge  and  cream 
that  went  its  automatic  way  to  Mr.  Glaive's  red- 
moustached  lips. 

"We  are  not  urging  you  to  eat,  Catherine. — I  sup- 


16  BRUTE  GODS 

pose  it  is  impossible  for  some  people  to  understand 
a  detached  and  general  conversation.  I  was  taking  a 
wide  view  of  the  state  of  our  times.  I  hope  I  can 
lift  myself  above  my  own  personal  griefs  and  injur- 
ies. They  have  never  yet  affected  my  judgment. 
"Women  are  incapable  of  that  kind  of  detachment. 
Entirely  incapable.  "What  I  have  to  say  about  this 
personal  matter  I  shall  say  to  you  all  at  the  right  time, 
in  proper  place.  You  will  kindly  be  in  my  Study  at 
eleven  o'clock  this  morning.  And — "  He  lowered 
his  pale  sparse  eyebrows  with  their  obstinate  project- 
ing hairs  showing  like  hairs  that  pierce  through  a 
thin  sock:  he  looked  hard  at  his  sister.  "Catherine: 
I  must  ask  you  not  to  refer  to  the  subject  in  any  sort 
of  way.  I  am  sorry  that  I  should  need  to  ask  you. 
I  should  have  thought — while  we  are  at  breakfast — " 

"Mixin'  it  all  up  with  the  porridge,"  Mervyn  dole- 
fully whispered. 

Alec  choked,  and  caught  his  napkin  to  his  mouth. 
He  gave  out  a  suppressed  sound  like  a  whinny.  His 
father  regarded  the  boys  in  astonishment  and  rage. 

"Unpardonable!"  he  exclaimed.  "Ungentle- 
manly.  You  take  a  mean  advantage  of  my  deafness. 
I  won't  ask  you  what  you  said,  Mervyn.  You  would 
only  tell  me  an  untruth.  Alec:  you  think  it's  behav- 
ing like  a  gentleman  to  sit  there  and  neigh  like  a 
mare?  I  will  not  have  such  conduct  at  my  table. 
A  scene  of  this  kind — this  morning."  In  deep  dis- 
taste of  the  actual  fact,  he  gave  a  moment's  survey  to 
the  contrasting  and  becoming  picture  which  should 
have  been  presented  by  the  family  on  that  occasion. 


CONFUSIONS  17 

"You  are  both  utterly  without — "  Alec  could  bear 
his  torture  of  suppression  no  longer.  "Yes,  I'm  glad 
you  retain  decency  enough  to  leave  the  table." 

"I  can  eat  nothing,  Sidney,"  Mrs.  Mowry  faltered, 
upturning  her  weak  obstinate  face.  "You  will  ex- 
cuse me,  too?"  Mr.  Glaive  nodded. 

He  was  left  alone  with  Mervyn.  No  longer 
obliged  to  regard  a  general  family  effect,  and  anxious 
to  get  his  son  on  his  side,  he  changed  his  manner. 

"My  boy,  I  want  your — er — support.  I'll  be 
perfectly  frank.  I  need  you.  I  can't  stand  alone — 
not  at  my  age — not  under  a  blow  like  this.  I'm 
not  a  weakling,  I  hope,  but  there  are  times  when  a 
man  must  lean — or,  well,  to  some  extent  depend — 
on  his  son.  Alec's  a  baby.  You're  a  man  grown. 
You  had  a  year  of  the  war:  in  a  way,  I  suppose, 
you've  'seen  life'  more  than  I  have.  Now  we  must 
look  this  horrible  business  in  the  face.  Of  course 
we  shall  be  exposed  to  ridicule — " 

"Good  Lord!  Is  there  any  chance  of  their  get- 
tin'  wind  of  it  up  at  Magdalen?"  Mervyn 's  blue 
eyes  clouded. 

"At  Magdalen?  I  was  thinking,  of  course,  of  our 
neighbourhood.  Oxford's  some  way  off." 

"What  exactly  did  old  Keeling  advise?  Will  you 
get  a  divorce?" 

"Oh — why,  yes,  yes,  of  course,  certainly.  I  must 
— er — vindicate  myself.  Keeling — well,  of  course, 
Keeling—" 

Mervyn,  forgetting  for  the  moment  his  cultivated 
civilian  slouch,  got  up  and  helped  himself  to  some 


18  BRUTE  GODS 

cold  ham  from  the  sideboard.  His  military  figure, 
so  straightly  yet  so  easily  poised,  was  in  agreeable 
contrast  with  his  lounging  dress — the  soft  grey  cloth 
coat,  the  loosely  knotted  bow  tie,  the  flannel  trousers 
of  a  lighter  shade  of  grey,  the  elegant  light-coloured 
socks  and  brown  leather  slippers.  His  wavy  hair 
was  almost  flaxen,  worn  rather  long. 

His  father  watched  him,  with  a  half-suppressed 
fleck  of  envy  in  his  narrowed  shrewd  glance.  His 
day  was  over,  but  he  felt  damnably  capable  of  being 
young;  the  more  so  for  Mrs.  Glaive's  desertion  of 
him. 

"I  can't  let  that  scoundrel  get  off  so  easily,  can 
It" 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  go  makin'  any — you  know,  too 
much  beastly  fuss  about  the  thing."  Mervyn  cut 
his  ham  deliberately. 

Mr.  Glaive  stood  up  by  the  mantelpiece.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  toes. 

"The  worm!  He  ought  to  pay  for  it;  he'll  have 
to.  Keeling  &  Marshall  would  get  me  thumping 
damages."  He  squinted  down  his  nose.  "Look 
here :  look  at  this  letter  I  found  in  her  room.  Shows 
just  the  kind  of  slimy  underhanded — " 

"I  say,  don't  let's  go  reading  his  beastly  letters — " 

"  'My  dear  lady' — that's  how  he  started  it.  'My 
dear  lady'!" 

"Well,  he  writes  novels  or  something,  don't  he?" 

"Your  stepmother  could  receive  a  letter  like  this. 
No  doubt  she  liked  getting  it.  The  gross  ingratitude 
and  deception.  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  I  never  could 


CONFUSIONS  19 

have  believed — And  that  kind  of  a  man!  To  think 
of  her  consenting  to  read  such  stuff  as  this!"  Mr. 
Glaive  was  happier  now.  "  'I  have  not  seldom 
thought  of  what  you  told  me,'  "  he  began  reading. 

"What's  that?  Why  couldn't  the  fool  have  said 
'often'?" 

"My  dear  Mervyn,  that's  the  literary  touch."  Mr. 
Glaive  was  enjoying  himself.  Little  sarcasms  always 
re-established  his  self-esteem.  "  'And  believe  me,  I 
have  thought  in  sympathy.'  '  He  read  with  twisted 
lips,  in  a  whining  drawl.  "  'If  I  may  without  pre- 
sumption offer  you  my  sympathy,  then  I  beg  of  you 
to  accept  it.  Sometimes  even  one  who  is  compara- 
tively a  stranger  may  make  this  offer,  and  the  touch 
of  a  hand,  even  though  it  be  only  for  a  brief  instant 
in  passing,  may  do  somewhat  toward  healing.' 
Really,  Mervyn,  I  must  apologize  for  reading  this  to 
you  while  you're  eating  your  breakfast.  'In  suffer- 
ing of  the  spirit  there  is  an  appeal  that  is  wide  as 
the  spirit  itself:  you  were  right  to  say  the  word  to 
me — more  right,  perhaps,  than  if  we  had  been  more 
intimately  acquainted.'  ' 

"When  is  this  bilge  dated?" 

"There's  no  date  and  no  address.  The  fellow  never 
puts  them.  Much  too  undistinguished  and  commer- 
cial for  a  man  of  letters  to  think  of  dates.  His 
mind's  too  full  of  the  beautiful  things  he's  going 
to  write,  especially  when  he's  writing  to  a  lovely 
lady!  Heh!  Postmark's  end  of  May — about  two 
months  ago. — You  see,  she  must  have  written  to  him 
without  my  knowledge. — 'I  feel  that  I  must  answer 


20  BRUTE  GODS 

your  letter — '  'Epistle'  would  have  been  a  daintier 
term,  Mervyn,  don't  you  think? — 'must  answer  by 
something  more  than  the  silent  thought  that  you  have 
already — as  you  will  know — had  from  me.'  ' 

Mervyn  finished  his  last  cup  of  coffee  and  squeaked 
his  chair. 

"Nearly  finished.  He  didn't  use  more  than  one 
sheet,  at  that  stage.  Didn't  want  to  overdo  the  ef- 
fect." The  man's  reddish  eyes  glistened.  "The  last 
sentence,  that's  a  gem.  'My  hope  is  that  your  ways 
may  win  through  light  that  grows,  on  to  peace. '  ' 

"My  God!" 

"A  master  of  English,  Mervyn.  'Thanking  you  for 
your  letter' — he  underlines  'thanking' — 'Believe  me, 
my  dear  friend,  most  sincerely  your  well-wisher, 
Hugh  Halley  Carlyon- Williams. '  " 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  trouble  any  more  about  a  chap 
like  that.  Why  not  let  the  thing  go?  What's  the 
point?  He's  not  worth — " 

"Yes,  but  how  about  her?  That's  what  hits  me, 
my  boy."  Mr.  Glaive  deepened  his  voice.  "The 
hideous  ingratitude  of  it.  I  had  given  her  every- 
thing— freely — as  you  know.  An  old  and  honourable 
name,  a  position  in  the  county — not  wealth,  but 
ample  sufficiency;  she  lacked  for  nothing.  My  con- 
stant affection  and  consideration.  Why — I  can  say 
it  to  you,  Mervyn,  you're  a  man — I  considered  her 
delicacy  of  health — so  far  as  to  spare  her  from — ah 
— maternity :  even  though  Dr.  Eesine — er — waived  the 
matter,  I  thought  it  better  to  avoid  the  risk — for 
her  sake.  Are  there  many  husbands — I  ask  you? 


CONFUSIONS  21 

My  constant  indulgence — for  five  years.  And  she  can 
write  to  that  cur  about  'spiritual  suffering.'  Make- 
believe  !  Women  grow  discontented  if  they  're  well 
treated,  that's  it.  Just  because  I  didn't  palaver  like 
that  bounder!  Because  I'm  a  plain  man,  and  not  a 
monkey."  He  pulled  down  his  mustard-coloured 
waistcoat  with  a  virile  gesture.  ' '  No  gentleman  could 
have  written  such  stuff.  'Hugh  Halley'!"  He 
ejected  the  name  in  a  thin  whistle.  "Women  don't 
recognize  a  gentleman — don't  know  his  value — any 
cad  can  catch  them.  Well,  she'll  degrade." 

"I  s'pose  he'll  still  go  on  writin'  about  what  the 
war  has  done  for  our  ideals  and  our  art  an'  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"Let  him.  This  thing  will  hit  him,  though.  The 
British  Public  won't  stand  hypocrisy.  Let  him  try 
to  make  them  believe  that  adultery  is  one  of  the  new 
ideals — let  him  see !  We'll  stamp  on  him.  There  are 
some  men  who  want  boot-prints  on  their  faces — with 
the  heel  in  their  mouths.  Swine!  Thank  God, 
Christianity  isn't  dead  yet — Christian  morality  isn't 
dead,  I  have  that  on  my  side." 

"I  don't  know  so  much.  Williams  is  the  sort  of 
chap  who  can  get  out  of  anything.  He  '11  be  as  moral 
as  any  of  them  about  it  all.  And  the  laugh '11  be  on 
us.  You  know  what  you  said,  ridicule  and  that." 

"I  don't  care.  I'll  bring  action.  It'll  hurt  him 
more  than  me.  We're  in  for  the  scandal,  anyhow." 
people  in  Suffolk  were  taking  the  "scandal";  but  he 
He  hesitated,  wanting  to  know  from  Mervyn  how 
could  not  bring  himself  to  ask.  He  construed  his 


22  BRUTE  GODS 

cowardice  as  dignity.  "I  must  defend  our  honour," 
he  added. 

"All  right.  I'd  think  it  over,  though.  When 
things  get  into  the  papers,  it  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence. Williams  is  pretty  well  known.  He  wouldn't 
mind — •" 

"Gad,  yes:  he'd  make  speeches  in  court,  and  all 
the  ladies  would  say  what  a  beautiful  voice ! ' ' 

"Good  advertisement.  For  him,  not  for  us.  He'd 
get  back  ten  times  any  damages,  and  he  knows  it. 
Probably  write  a  book  about  the  case — 'unwritten 
law' — you  know  the  kind  of  thing." 

"It's  monstrous,  Mervyn;  a  monstrous  injustice. 
The  most  outrageous  thing  is  that  she  can  keep  her 
own  money — all  of  it.  Why,  it  makes  me  feel  dead 
ashamed  of  English  law!  But  I  shall  sue."  Mr. 
Glaive  was  getting  angry  again.  "I  believe  in  doing 
the  right  thing  regardless  of  consequences.  I'd  get 
thumping  damages,  whatever  he  might  make  out  of 
it  afterwards.  I'd  score  in  that.  He'd  bleat  at 
having  to  pay  ten  or  fifteen  thousand,  wouldn't  he, 
eh?  What  d 'you  think?" 

"I'd  wait  a  bit." 

"Wait?  Well,  anyhow,  there's  the  present  to  be 
thought  of.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  have  a  house- 
keeper." Mr.  Glaive's  mouth  loosened,  and  he  looked 
down  his  nose  again.  "Your  aunt's  useless. — Now, 
to  take  things  from  your  point  of  view:  this  affair 
has  thrown  a  burden  on  you.  A  sort  of  moral  burden. 
We  have  to  show  people  that  we're  not  tarred  with 
the  same  dirty  brush,  you  see  that?  Make  Alec  see 


CONFUSIONS  23 

that!  He'll  have  to  be  precious  careful  how  he  be- 
haves in  the  neighbourhood.  You're  two  goodlook- 
ing  boys — no  harm  my  telling  you  that — and  of  course 
I  know  what  temptation  is.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a 
stone.  People '11  be  on  the  look-out.  Of  course  you're 
engaged.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you,  of  course  not. 
But  I  hope  you've  been  careful  how  you  talk.  Ig- 
nore the  affair,  of  course.  Be  distant  if  any  one  takes 
up  too  sympathetic  an  attitude,  especially  if  it's  a 
social  inferior.  That's  the  most  dignified  way — the 
best  bred  way.  Never  forget  that  you're  a  Glaive." 

"Oh,  Lord,"  thought  Mervyn,  "now  we're  in  for 
the  great  Glaive  sermon." 

"The  Glaives  are  as  good  as  the  Freyles.  They're 
better.  The  baronetcy's  really  older  than  any  of 
their  titles.  Dates  back  before  any  of  Lord  Yet- 
minster's  ancestors  were  heard  of.  I  should  never 
dream  of  mentioning  it  outside  the  family,  of  course. 
But  a  man  should  realize  his  birth,  especially  in  these 
times.  It  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  •  We 
can  hold  up  our  heads,  whatever  happens.  Carlyon- 
Williams !  I  should  like  to  know  of  any  Carlyon-Wil- 
liams  who 's  legally  entitled  to  bear  arms !  Contemp- 
tible fellows.  How  she  could — Reminds  me  of 
Hamlet.  'Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to 
feed,  And  batten  on  this  moor?'  " 

He  gave  his  short  stature  a  gesture  of  affirmation. 
Mervyn 's  lip  twitched,  as  he  glanced  at  the  "fair 
mountain. ' '  He  wished  Alec  had  been  there. 

"We  have  our  family  faults.  We're  quick-tem- 
pered— excitable — too  passionate,  perhaps.  Our 


24  BRUTE  GODS 

blood  runs  hot.  But  no  Glaive  has  ever  been  guilty 
of  a  mean  or  a  base  action."  He  spoke  with  unim- 
pugnable  sincerity.  "We've  always  supported  the 
great  Causes,  the  great  traditions.  Fought  for  Crom- 
well, helped  William  of  Orange  to  the  throne,  sup- 
ported the  Protestant  Church  and  the  Constitution 
— father  to  son.  Freedom  within  the  law :  faith  with- 
out superstition.  The  foundations  of  a  good  life  are 
ours  by  inheritance.  We've  never  known  disgrace 
or  dishonour,  never  broken  faith — " 

Mervyn  yawned.  All  this  was  meaningless  to  him. 
He  began  wondering  what  his  father  would  do  when 
he  found  out  how  much  he  owed  the  Oxford  trades- 
men. 

"Remember  that  we  can't  be  disgraced.  We  take 
disgrace  and  make  a  glory  of  it!  That's  the  spirit! 
Williams! — What  do  you  think,  my  boy,  do  you 
think  they'd  give  five  thousand  damages?  More,  per- 
haps? He'd  feel  it  more  if  he  were  older,  though. 
You  know  what  they  say.  When  a  man's  twenty,  he 
wants  to  look  well,  when  he's  thirty  he  wants  to  do 
well — when  he's  forty,  to  be  well — when  he's  fifty, 
to  'cut  up'  well.  Not  true,  that,  though,"  he  added 
hurriedly.  "I'm  not  thinking  of  'cutting  up'  yet, 
I've  my  time. — Don't  you  go  looking  at  me  as  though 
I  were  an  octogenarian.  When  a  man's  only  about 
fifty,  he  isn't  dead  yet,  is  he?  Well — "  Mervyn 
was  obviously  restless.  "Be  on  your  guard.  Re- 
member your  name.  Hold  up  Alec's  head  for  him, 
and  don't  let  your  aunt  make  more  of  a  fool  of  her- 


CONFUSIONS  25 

self  than  she  has  to — poor  creature!  Of  course 
she—" 

The  door  opened.  "His  lordship  is  in  the  Study, 
sir." 

"Ah.  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  I  might  have  ex- 
pected— "  Mr.  Glaive  looked  gratified:  he  turned 
to  the  mirror,  fiddled  with  his  horse-shoe  pin, 
smoothed  his  faded  yellowish  hair.  "Of  course  he 
would  come.  Motor  over  to  Bloyce's,  Mervyn,  and 
get  that  mortgage  business  settled.  Your  law  ought 
to  be  fresher  than  mine.  Get  back  by  eleven,  if  you 
can.  But  we'll  wait  for  you." 

Mervyn  rose  as  his  father  went  to  receive  the  con- 
dolences of  the  Marquis.  Mr.  Glaive,  in  his  neatly 
cut  morning  coat  and  his  taut  check  trousers,  left  the 
room  carrying  his  little  head  rather  to  one  side,  and 
further  stating  himself  with  his  spry  and  wary  back. 
The  door  stayed  open,  and  the  boy  and  the  servant 
heard  something  of  the  preliminary  approaches:  "I 
wished  to  express  to  you  personally — following  my 
letter — most  sincere  sympathies — great  shock  to  us — 
you  know  the  great  regard — Lady  Yetminster  and  I 
— always  your  friends — "  Then  from  the  husband 
and  father,  in  a  voice  sharpened  by  excitement:  "I 
am  very  much  touched — do  indeed  appreciate,  and 
thank  you — act  of  real  friendship — in  fact,  Lord  Yet- 
minster, I'm  quite  incapable  of  expressing  what  I 
feel — "  The  Study  door  closed. 

Mervyn  threw  open  the  French  window  and 
walked  out  on  to  the  drive.  It  had  stopped  raining. 


26  BRUTE  GODS 

He  whistled,  and  soon  his  brother  joined  him,  with 
flushed  face  and  indignant  eyes. 

"You  perfect  ass,"  said  Alec.  ''I've  been  waiting 
about  to  get  in  and  finish  my  breakfast,  but  you  and 
he  would  keep  on  jabbering.  'Don't  want  to  go  now, 
though.  Sick  of  waiting." 

"I  can't  help  it.  You  will  do  these  things.  You 
ought  to  know  by  now  that  it  isn't  behaving  like  a 
gentleman  to  neigh  like  a  mare. ' ' 

"Oh,  shut  up.  You  can't  make  me  laugh  now. 
You  might  be  as  funny  as  you  could  stick  together, 
and  it  wouldn't  make  me  laugh.  Just  because  it 
wouldn't  matter  if  I  did,  I  suppose.  How  damn  silly ! 
—  What  did  he  say?"  They  walked  down  towards 
the  garage. 

"Oh,  the  usual  gag.  Business  about  bein'  a 
blasted  Glaive.  And  you're  to  keep  up  the  honour 
of  the  family,  after  this,  by  not  takin'  any  notice 
of  girls  and  always  talkin'  proper.  Dear  old  dad 
isn't  sure  if  he'll  get  enough  cash  out  of  Williams 
to  make  it  worth  while,  but  if  he  can  annoy  the  chap 
badly,  he  may  bring  action  anyhow.  I'm  against  it. 
It'd  be  a  horrid  nuisance,  particularly  while  I'm  up 
at  Oxford.  Don't  think  the  old  bird '11  do  it,  but 
he'd  make  himself  damn  uncomfortable,  so's  to  hit 
Williams." 

"You  seem  cheerful  enough.  I  don't  half  like  it. 
Why,  it's  the  sort  of  thing  that  hardly  ever  happens. 
We  shall  both  look  awful  fools — " 

"Oh,  what's  the  odds?  You  ought  to  have  been  a 
few  years  older.  After  you  Ve  been  mixed  up  in  that 


CONFUSIONS  27 

mess,  all  you  want  is  to  live  an7  have  a  good  time, 
an'  never  see  a  uniform.  I  shan't  ever  give  or  take 
a  salute  again,  that's  enough  for  me.  "War's  over. 
What 's  the  odds  ? — Wake  up  in  a  bed,  have  a  bath  and 
be  a  civilian.  You  don't  think  anything  of  a  little 
thing  like  this.  She  isn't  our  mother,  either.  And 
anyhow  nothing's  worth  fussing  over.  'Pity  Wil- 
liams is  such  an  ass,  though." 

Alec,  puzzled,  scrutinized  his  brother.  He  did  not 
at  all  understand  how  deeply,  yet  how  lightly  and  ami- 
ably, Mervyn  was  disillusioned.  "I  see  the  Rat's 
come,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  with  the  old  man  in  the  Study  now.  I've 
got  to  drive  over  to  Bloyce's." 

"Auntie's  guzzling  in  her  room.  She  got  Mogg- 
ridge  to  send  her  breakfast  up." 

"'Course  she  did.  Any  one  could  see  she  was 
really  as  hungry  as  a  whale.  'Wish  she'd  eloped  in- 
stead of  the  Mater.  I  hate  Aunt  Cathy  worst  of  all 
my  aunts,  but  I  s'pose  that's  only  because  she  lives 
with  us.  If  I  wasn't  as  lazy  as  a  tortoise  I'd  clear 
out  and  get  something  to  do  in  London.  'Don't  fancy 
trottin'  round  seein'  after  the  Eat's  tenants  all  my 
life — just  like  the  guv 'nor.  But,  Lord,  what's  the 
odds?  Comin'  along?" 

"No,  don't  think  so." 

"Well,  don't  go  messin'  about  with  Frippie. 
She's  a  rotter,  anyhow.  Some  fellow's  gone  and 
bitten  her  chin  already." 

Mervyn  sauntered  off.  Alec's  face  grew  grave 
and  troubled.  He  walked  away,  over  the  lawn, 


28  BRUTE  GODS 

through  the  gate  that  led  into  the  field — a  youth 
somewhat  over-tall,  with  an  undisciplined  figure. 
Girls  who  liked  him  thought  of  his  eyes,  which  were 
of  a  very  dark  brown — impressionable  eyes,  and  large ; 
contrasting  startlingly  with  his  russet  hair  that  had 
enough  light  of  gold  in  it  for  him  to  have  been  called 
"Carrots"  at  school.  A  less  hackneyed  nickname 
was  "Autumn  Tints."  His  face  was  long,  and  high- 
coloured:  he  blushed  very  easily,  to  a  tormentingly 
vivid  scarlet.  His  round  chin  hinted  weakness  of 
will,  but  this  suggestion  was  modified,  at  least,  by  a 
certain  grimness  and  almost  bitterness  often  showing 
in  the  close  lines  of  his  mouth — a  small  mouth,  though 
with  full  enough  lips.  He  baffled  prediction,  so  evi- 
dently exposed  as  he  was,  so  susceptible  to  change, 
so  ready  for  any  one  of  a  score  of  diverse  moulds. 
But  "volatile"  was  not  the  word  to  touch  him:  his 
surrender  to  influence  would  be  too  seriously  made, 
with  too  much  energy;  and  he  would  colour  each  in- 
fluence with  himself,  subdue  it  to  himself,  perhaps. 
His  long  legs  now  took  him  rapidly  over  the  field 
towards  Father  Collett's  Vicarage.  "You  can  hardly 
blame  the  Mater. ' '  Mervyn's  careless  words  had  gone 
deep,  Alec  struck  out  from  them,  and  was  lost.  His 
mind  swam  in  the  first  surge  of  the  event,  but  could 
not  breast  eddies  nor  touch  bottom.  His  step- 
mother— He  tried,  wonderingly,  to  see  her.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Glaive's  adulterous  desertion  had  postponed 
Aunt  Catherine's  breakfast — a  trifling  piece  of  dis- 
comfort for  the  heartfelt  satisfaction  she  had  had  in 
a  surprise  so  stirring:  it  had  set  the  brain  of  the 


CONFUSIONS  29 

master  of  the  house  working  keen  on  nice  balances 
of  loss  and  profit,  in  the  intervals  of  self-dedication  to 
Christian  morality:  the  settled  Mervyn's  amiable 
securities  it  had  sensibly  though  not  too  rudely  ruffled. 
In  Alec,  the  sense  of  the  "calamity"  began  to  vex 
for  organic  growth. 


CHAPTEE  II 

ALEC  crossed  the  road  from  the  field  and 
struck  out  skirting  the  Golf  Course.  The 
flat  treeless  drained  marshland  was  rough- 
ened and  brightened  by  bushes  of  lively  yellow  gorse. 
Their  lavish  buxom  odour  assailed  him,  in  blend  with 
the  smart-tasting  sea  air.  All  this  could  not  help: 
it  could  stand  anything — any  beastly  thing  that  might 
happen.  That  impudent  excessive  shouting  gorse! 
If  only  he  could  insult  this  "Nature,"  which  had  be- 
come really  noticeable  to  him  now  for  the  first  time. 
Alec  swished  his  stick  through  one  of  the  clumps, 
scattering  the  offensive  bright  stuff.  He  remembered 
the  Suffolk  boy  who  had  been  found  beating  a  toad 
and  calling  out,  between  the  strokes:  "I'll  larn 
yer  to  be  a  toad,  I'll  larn  yer!"  Perhaps  that  boy 
was  angry  with  some  one  else.  But  it  was  not  so 
much  that  Alec  was  angry  with  his  father ;  such  mere 
anger  would  not,  of  course,  have  been  unusual  for 
him.  His  emotion  was  one  of  new  and  highly  con- 
scious hatred.  He  was  overpowered  by  and  wonder- 
ing at  this  quickening  of  hatred  as  a  woman  is  by 
the  quickening  of  a  child :  it  was  a  portent  of  growth, 
significant,  disquieting,  uncertain;  it  was  something 
that  would  grow  not  only  in  itself,  but  in  other  parts 
of  him,  in  very  much  else.  .  .  . 

As  Alec  walked,  he  did  not  think  at  all  of  his  step- 
30 


CONFUSIONS  31 

mother,  but  his  father  emerged  for  him  rapidly  and 
continuously  in  a  score  of  those  repeated  postures 
of  the  past.  He  saw  him  in  his  morning  irritability, 
glinting  his  liverish  eye  from  point  to  point  of  the 
room  during  the  assembling  for  Prayers,  then  pounc- 
ing with  the  sharpened  little  claws  of  his  sarcastic 
and  malevolent  speech.  "Is  there  some  cryptic  rea- 
son, Mervyn,  for  your  turning  yourself  into  a  public 
advertisement  of  brainless  vanity?  That  necktie  and 
those  socks  may  serve  some  other  purpose,  but  if  they 
do,  it  is  hidden  from  me." — "What  is  the  point, 
Alec,  of  that  ridiculous  pose  you've  taken  to  lately 
of  folding  your  arms?  I  see  you've  even  gone  to 
the  lengths  of  perpetuating  yourself  in  a  photo- 
graph in  that  attitude." — "Catherine,  do  pray  use 
some  sort  of  endeavour  not  to  commit  yourself  to 
further  folly." 

There  was  no  personal  peculiarity  of  any  one  of  the 
three  of  them  that  he  did  not  customarily  gibe  at, 
with  intent.  He  knew  just  where  the  nerves  were 
that  would  respond  with  sensitive  and  continued 
vibration.  Alec,  in  retrospect,  smarted  most  keenly 
under  the  memories  of  his  earlier  boyhood,  fed  his 
hate  most  on  them.  He  recalled  the  time  when  he 
used  to  have  dancing  lessons.  "Well,  my  little  danc- 
ing-man! Strike  up!  Tra-la-la,  fol-de-rol!"  His 
father  would  skip  and  jump  on  the  hearthrug, 
grotesquely  encircling  an  imaginary  partner,  con- 
torting his  lips  to  the  parody  of  a  social  smile. — 
There  used  to  be  Shakespeare  readings,  with  a  group 
of  neighbours  sitting  round  the  drawing-room  of  one 


32  BRUTE  GODS 

or  another  of  their  houses.  His  father  always  took  the 
most  prominent  part,  he  would  read  with  extraor- 
dinary cleverness,  with  a  brilliant  sense  of  certain 
values  of  the  characters.  "Your  interpretation  of 
Jacques — it 's  masterly,  Mr.  Glaive — masterly ! ' '  Mrs. 
Bevan,  the  retired  actress,  had  complimented  him: 
Alec  could  see  clearly  the  deprecating  bend  of  his 
father's  head,  his  creeping  smile.  .  .  .  Alec  had  had 
to  read  "Silvius,"  the  shepherd.  His  father  had 
made  him  rehearse  before  the  family.  He  knew  that 
the  boy,  being  then  at  the  most  sensitive  and  morbid 
period  of  the  awkward  age,  could  hardly  be  trusted 
to  make  Silvius's  declarations  of  love  expressively 
without  a  little  practice.  "Oh,  Phebe,  Phebe, 
Phebe!"  the  lad  read,  in  a  cracking  voice,  his  cheeks 
throbbing.  "Oh,  feeble,  feeble,  feeble!"  his  father 
shot  out,  with  again  that  familiar  creeping  smile. 
At  the  meeting  itself,  Alec  had  read  sullenly  and 
monotonously.  "If  you  want  everybody  to  think 
you  a  numskull,  that's  the  way  to  do  it!"  Mr.  Glaive 
had  been  too  much  occupied  with  his  own  triumph  as 
Jacques  to  make  any  further  comment  then.  Mervyn 
had  played  truant,  his  part  had  been  read  by  some 
one  else,  Alec  envying  him  his  courage.  Later  on,  he 
had  followed  its  example. 

At  about  fifteen  he  had  begun  his  defiance,  when 
he  had  set  himself  stubbornly  not  to  allow  that  moist- 
ening sting  of  his  eyes  to  help  his  father's  favourable 
occasions.  He  would  leave  the  room.  "You  can- 
not go  when  I'm  talking  to  you,  sir:  haven't  you  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman?"  To  counter  this  rebellion, 


CONFUSIONS  83 

Mr.  Glaive  had  stopped  his  son's  pocket  money — 
"until  you  see  fit  to  apologize  for  your  rudeness." 
' '  Stop  it  for  ever,  then ! ' '  Alec  had  told  him,  bringing 
ing  home  the  unpleasing  fact  that  the  son  was  grow- 
ing up  out  of  former  reach.  The  punishment  did  not 
last  long.  "Stopped  your  pocket  money,  has  he,  the 
old  skinflint!"  young  Lord  Aldborough,  Lord  Yet- 
minster's  son,  had  observed  to  Alec  under  the  Study 
window.  Mr.  Glaive  overheard,  and  in  a  few  days  he 
handed  out  the  boy's  allowance  with  an  air  of  large 
generosity.  "An  act  of  grace,"  he  had  said:  "but 
remember,  when  you  choose  to  be  stubborn  in  later 
life,  you  won't  always  have  a  father  to  deal  with.  I 
can't  treat  you  now  as  though  you'd  reached  a  re- 
sponsible age."  He  could  not  stand  being  censured 
for  parsimony  by  a  young  Earl. 

Lord  Aldborough — Lord  Yetminster — Lord  Charles 
Freyle — Lord  Derek — Lady  Barbara — how  they  had 
overflowed  on  them,  those  people — swamped  them. 
Alec's  father's  house  and  everything  in  it  seemed  a 
sort  of  backwash  from  Lord  Yetminster 's  great 
"country  seat."  And  Alec's  father,  for  all  that 
perpetual  insistence  of  his — "A  Glaive  is  as  good  as 
a  Freyle,  and  better" — all  the  more,  indeed,  for  that 
assertive  repetition,  his  father  seemed  responsible  for 
their  shadowed  situation,  guilty  of  it.  The  boy  did 
not  ask  why,  nor  how,  but  he  bitterly  felt  that  any 
man  with  real  pride  would  not  have  put  himself  and 
his  family  under  that  big  rich  house,  under  all  those 
titles  that  towered  and  bristled.  It  was  not  that  any 
of  the  Freyles  emphasized  their  rank:  they  did  not, 


34  BRUTE  GODS 

not  even  Lord  Aldborough,  who  was  the  only  one  at 
all  inclined  to  arrogance.  It  was  Alec's  father  who 
was  for  ever  putting  his  sons  into  that  discomfiting 
conscious  relation  to  the  Marquisate  and  its  ap- 
panages. Members  of  the  Freyle  family  had  loomed 
heavily  for  Mervyn  and  Alec  almost  from  their  in- 
fancy. "Never  say  'Lord  Freyle.'  Only  outsiders 
and  foreigners  do  that.  'Lord  Charles  Freyle.'  Say- 
ing 'Lord  Freyle'  will  stamp  you  as  a  bounder  at 
once,  remember  that,  Mervyn."  "In  conversation 
you  say  'Lord  Yetminster' ;  in  addressing  an  envelope 
put  the  full  title.  You  see,  as  I've  just  written  it. 
Same  with  Lord  Aldborough — 'The  Earl  of  Aid- 
borough'  only  in  addressing  letters.  You  boys  drop 
the  title  when  you're  with  him,  of  course:  you're  near 
enough  to  his  age." 

They  were  all  "equals":  how  his  father  had  rubbed 
that  in!  And  his  father  lied;  they  weren't  equals. 
Even  if  the  Glaive  family  had  been  older — and  it 
was  not;  Alec's  uncle  always  laughed  at  the  preten- 
sion— but  even  if  it  had  been,  there  were  hundreds 
of  distant  cousins  to  baronets,  and  marquises  were 
rare.  Sir  Julian  was  an  impoverished  degraded 
baronet,  too,  he  associated  chiefly  with  jockeys  and 
horsey  adventurers,  no  one  of  his  own  class  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  him,  he  was  a  drunken  red-jowled 
"sport,"  with  all  the  usual  vices.  He  was  the  third 
baronet,  the  creation  being  mere  Victorian,  given  for 
contributions  to  the  Liberal  Party  chest.  That  old 
fake  of  its  being  a  revival  of  a  title  extinct  since 
James  the  Second!  Alec's  resentment  grew  still  more 


CONFUSIONS  35 

hostile. — The  Freyles  didn't  regard  them  as  equals, 
Aldborough  had  called  formally  on  Mervyn  at  Ox- 
ford, and  with  Mervyn 's  return  call  there  was  an 
end  of  the  matter.  He  knew  Mervyn  as  his  father's 
agent's  son  at  home,  but  that  was  no  reason  for  his 
knowing  him  anywhere  else.  And  the  "county 
people"  didn't  think  them  "equals."  Their  old 
name!  Why,  even  if  it  had  been  old — Jim  Bovey, 
the  cobbler,  was  a  blood-relative  of  Lord  Beauvais, 
Alec  had  heard  Lord  Beauvais  say  he  was  practically 
certain  of  it.  It  wasn't  your  name  that  counted, 
it  was  your  position ;  any  one  could  see  that,  yet  his 
father  had  fooled  them  with  these  false  values,  ex- 
posed them  to  all  the  choking  bitterness  of  snobbery, 
handicapped  them  at  the  start,  stopped  their  breath 
for  the  race.  No  wonder  the  Mater  couldn't  stand 
it — that  and  everything  else — 

It  had  been  stupid  and  cruel.  Alec's  friend  Wil- 
fred Vail  had  first  made  him  see  these  things,  had 
cured  him  of  this  Glaive  pretentiousness.  "We 
middleclass  people,"  Vail  would  say,  shocking  Alec 
terribly  in  their  early  acquaintanceship.  "I  thought 
tradesmen  were  middleclass,"  he  had  replied.  "Oh, 
'upper  middleclass'  for  us,  if  you  insist  on  it,  my  dear 
boy!"  Alec  saw  very  soon  how  much  easier  Wil- 
fred's undervaluation  of  his  social  position  made  life 
for  him,  how  it  freed  him  from  strain  and  left  him 
open  to  the  flow  of  his  interests.  He  could  figure 
his  father's  consciousness,  in  Vail's  place,  of  the  fact 
that  all  his  "people"  had  belonged  to  the  recognized 
professions,  and  that  his  great-uncle  had  been  Lord 


36  BRUTE  GODS 

Chancellor.  But  Vail  drew  his  straight  line  between 
himself  and  the  county  families ;  drew  it  as  sharp  and 
black-clear  as  one  of  the  lines  in  his  excellent 
mechanical  diagrams.  He  had  a  singularly  French 
mind,  a  mind  of  certainties,  bent  on  simplification  of 
issues  by  accuracy  and  logic. 

Unwittingly,  Wilfred  Vail  had  opened  Alec's  eyes 
to  this  particular  wrong  done  him  by  his  father,  this 
ridiculous  entangling  of  him  in  pretence.  His 
father's  vanity  needed  lies  for  its  support,  and  the 
nurturing  of  a  family  on  those  lies  lent  them  substance 
of  conviction,  strengthened  them  for  their  mean 
ministrations.  Alec  had  come  to  realize  this,  from 
Wilfred,  a  year  ago;  he  had  condemned  his  father 
then,  resenting  him,  despising  him,  angry  that  he  and 
Mervyn  should  have  been  set  thus  blindfolded  and 
befooled  in  the  way  of  worldly  ridicule.  Every  one 
in  East  Suffolk  had  heard  the  story  of  Mrs.  Conyers 
and  her  Manx  kitten:  smart  little  Mrs.  Conyers  on 
the  Station  platform,  dumping  the  grotesque  little 
tailless  beast  into  a  corner  of  her  carriage,  with: 
* '  Now,  then,  Tips,  behave :  remember  you  're  a  Manx ! ' ' 
This  and  other  such  humorous  satiric  strokes  of  the 
neighbourhood  had  gained  point  and  sting  for  Alec 
since  his  friendship  with  Wilfred  Vail. 

But  the  illumination  of  this  present  event  was  much 
more  powerful.  It  revealed  the  past  under  a  much 
broader  gauge  of  light,  it  threw  meaningly  into  their 
mutual  relationship  the  different  integral  parts  of  his 
father's  evil.  Now,  after  the  first  joltings  and 
blurrings  of  Alec's  focus,  this  vindictive  clarity  took 


CONFUSIONS  37 

settled  place.  He  had  never  felt  his  vision  so  keen, 
his  brain  so  active  and  sure.  His  friend  Wilfred  had 
often  said  to  him:  "You  need  intellectual  quicken- 
ing1." Well,  now  he  had  it,  this  quickening.  His 
old  double  confusing  consciousness  of  his  father  was 
gone  for  good.  Before,  there  had  been  a  queer  com- 
posite picture  of  the  father's  advertised  self  and  his 
self  as  shown  in  daily  act.  The  advertisement,  dis- 
played by  Glaive  himself,  by  the  aunt,  by  Alec's  step- 
mother, and  in  earlier  days  by  the  housekeeper  and 
the  boys'  nurse,  was  of  a  man  just  and  self-controlled, 
honourable  and  generous,  kind  and  clever,  a  good  man 
and  a  good  father,  entitled  to  respect  and  obedience 
by  natural  right.  From  as  far  back  in  childhood  as 
either  of  the  boys  could  remember,  the  association 
of  these  qualities  with  their  father  had  been  im- 
pressed: and  the  impression  of  his  actual  self  had 
been  working  upon  them  for  the  same  length  of 
time.  Now,  all  this  advertisement  was  peeled  quite 
away,  the  authentic  and  consistent  man  emerged  un- 
plastered,  and  Alec,  seeing  his  father  for  the  first 
time,  for  the  first  time  realized  that  he  was  his  father, 
and  so  for  the  first  time  he  could  really  hate  him. 

The  boy  walked  more  rapidly,  his  hatred  caught 
sick  and  cold  at  his  belly.  What  right  had  his  father 
had  to  cheat  and  hurt  them  like  this — as  he  had 
cheated  and  hurt  them  when  they  were  such  kids, 
and  didn't  know,  and  couldn't  do  anything?  If 
he  had  flogged  them,  that  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad. 
Alec  had  been  flogged,  of  course,  at  his  public  school ; 
that  only  mattered  for  the  time,  all  the  other  chaps 


38  BRUTE  GODS 

were  swished  too,  no  one  thought  anything  of  it. 
His  father  had  never  beaten  either  him  or  Mervyn. 
' '  That  wouldn  't  have  amused  him ! ' '  He  liked  to  be 
cleverer  than  that  in  making  them  cry.  Alec  very 
clearly  remembered  Mervyn 's  shame  at  being  seen  cry- 
ing; Mervyn  had  been  angry  with  him  for  having 
seen,  he  had  taken  him  by  the  wrist  and  punched 
his  arm,  with  tears  in  his  own  eyes.  "Well — nothing 
their  father  said  could  ever  make  either  of  them  cry 
again,  they  had  been  hardened  in  that  way.  All  the 
same,  he  had  left  his  marks,  and  he  was  there.  He 
still  had  power,  he  would  always  be  doing  something 
to  somebody.  The  man's  active  malevolence  flashed 
on  Alec.  What  had  he  done  to  the  Mater  to  make 
her  clear  out  like  that? 

The  Mater — •  It  was  very  puzzling  to  think  of  her, 
because  she  seemed,  somehow,  to  have  become  a  new 
person.  It  had  always  been  impressed  upon  Alec 
that  he  loved  her  very  much.  Certainly  it  was  odd, 
the  house  without  her.  She  had  always  been  some- 
body whom  you  had  to  remember  to  greet,  to  say 
good  morning  and  good  night  and  good-bye  to,  and 
on  whose  account  you  were  not  to  make  too  much 
noise.  "Not  very  strong"  they  said  of  her.  That 
too  had  been  impressed  on  the  boy — also  the  fact  of 
her  beauty,  so  much  so  that  the  word  "beautiful" 
instantly  associated  itself  with  her.  And  he  had 
realized,  with  definite  pride,  that  she  was  much  better 
to  look  at  than  the  women  of  other  households.  It 
used  to  seem  hard  luck  on  other  boys  that  they  should 
have  to  have  their  kind  of  mothers.  Alec  remembered 


CONFUSIONS  39 

how  the  Mater  used  to  look,  in  the  hall,  on  her  way 
out  for  a  motor-drive.  She  wore  black  furs.  His 
mind  strained  out  to  her.  Once  when  they  were 
all  at  the  theatre  in  London,  she  had  said  to  him: 
"You  do  enjoy  it,  darling,  don't  you?"  That 
memory  stood  out  very  clear,  but  nothing  came  of  it ; 
it  hung  suspended,  without  contact.  The  Mater  was 
a  "beautiful,"  "not  very  strong"  person,  closely 
connected  with  several  things  you  had  to  remember, 
with  her  place  at  the  dining-table,  with  being  "in 
her  room, ' '  where  she  had  not  uncommonly  stayed,  in- 
visible to  Alec  and  Mervyn,  for  days  together.  When 
she  spoke  she  made  you  want  to  answer  in  the  same 
kind  of  low  voice.  Alec's  acceptance  of  her  had  been 
of  that  completely  incurious  and  passive  kind  given 
by  young  people  to  the  elders  who  live  with  them. 
Yet  for  all  this,  and  for  all  the  little  he  had  seen  or 
thought  of  her,  she  was  involved,  deeply,  in  his  idea 
of  "home":  he  always  felt  she  was  there.  Now  she 
was  not,  and  the  readjustments,  the  challenges 
clamouring  out  of  that  fact  were  too  much  for  the 
boy.  He  stopped  his  ears  to  them:  he  recalled  that 
remark  of  Mervyn 's  to  keep  them  off. 

Of  course  Mervyn  was  absolutely  right.  The  Mater 
was  well  out  of  it,  you  couldn't  blame  her.  Only,  as 
Mervyn  said,  it  was  a  pity  that  silly  fool  Williams 
had  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  Alec  determined  not  to 
accept  any  condolences,  direct  or  indirect.  Father 
Collett  would  say  something  about  it — so  would  Wil- 
fred Vail — and  he  would  tell  them  that  he  thought 
— that  he  knew  his  stepmother  was  right.  There  had 


40  BRUTE  GODS 

been  enough  lies:  he  wouldn't  be  like  his  father.  But 
it  wasn't  only  a  question  of  his  father;  there  were 
all  these  other  people,  the  neighbours.  They  would 
lie  too,  they  would  all  of  them  say  the  Mater  had 
done  wrong,  they  would  say  they  were  sorry  for  his 
father,  they  would  support  him. — Perhaps  there 
hadn't  been  any  special  thing  his  father  had  done 
to  her,  it  had  been  just  his  general  beastliness,  gen- 
eral "bloodiness,"  that  she  couldn't  stand  any  longer. 
Before  the  rest  of  the  family  he  had  always  behaved 
pretty  decently  to  her,  he  wasn't  rude  as  he  was  to 
Aunt  Cathy,  he  didn't  row  her  as  her  rowed  the 
others.  Alec  understood,  without  worded  thought, 
that  his  father's  feeling  for  Mrs.  Glaive  as  his  per- 
sonal property  prevented  him  from  compromising 
himself  by  that  kind  of  attack  upon  her.  He  realized, 
too,  that  his  father's  perpetual  air  of  superior  forbear- 
ance with  his  wife  might  well  be  worse  to  put  up 
with,  day  in  and  day  out,  than  any  ridicule  or  in- 
sult. And  there  had  been  certain  galled  raking  tones 
sometimes  carried  to  the  boy's  ears  from  the  big  bed- 
room. "What  a  stupid  woman!"  he  had  overheard 
once:  a  remark  that  had  touched  his  memory 
strangely.  For  how  could  "the  best  mother,  the  best 
woman  in  the  world,"  as  his  father  had  often  as- 
sured them  she  was,  be  stupid?  He  knew  that  he 
had  heard  that  remark  before,  said  in  just  that  way, 
in  just  that  place ;  he  thought  he  must  have  dreamed 
it,  till  gradually  there  came  from  very  early  child- 
hood the  remembrance  of  his  father  having  exclaimed 
upon  his  real  mother  in  the  same  phrase. 


CONFUSIONS  41 

Alec's  real  mother  was  vague  and  distant,  but  he 
remembered  one  thing  about  her  now,  he  remembered 
how  she  had  once  cried.  She  had  been  reading  him 
a  story  of  Hans  Andersen,  a  story'about  Cupid,  the 
little  boy  who  had  hit  every  father  and  mother  with  his 
arrow.  "You  can  ask  your  mother  if  this  is  not 
true."  Alec  indignantly  had  asked.  "Yes,"  she  re- 
plied, and  then  turned  her  face  and  cried  with  a 
violence  of  misery  that  amazed  the  child  and  shocked 
him. 

It  never  occurred  to  Alec  that  Mrs.  Glaive  might 
be  "in  love"  with  Carlyon-Williams,  he  could  not 
imagine  her  "in  love"  with  anybody:  a  romantic 
elopement  was  too  incongruous  with  his  household 
associations  with  his  stepmother  for  him  to  take  a 
moment's  view  of  it.  But  he  knew  that  what  to  him- 
self he  called  "the  smutty  part  of  it"  would  be  vivid 
to  every  one,  and  this  shamed  and  annoyed  him.  He 
knew  the  kind  of  whispering  slant-eyed  interest  that 
would  be  taken  by  people  like  Mr.  McGill,  the  lay- 
reader — the  "Purity  Ghoul,"  as  Mervyn  called  him, 
because  of  his  bony  sallow  face  and  his  activity  in 
a  certain  organization  that  aimed  at  the  promotion 
of  virtuousness  in  "thought,  word,  and  deed."  He 
knew,  too,  that  whenever  anything  "smutty"  came 
in,  people  always  laughed,  and  that  in  this  case  they 
would  laugh  chiefly  at  his  father.  It  was  some  satis- 
faction that  his  father  would  mind  being  laughed  at, 
it  was  paying  him  back.  He  had  made  his  family 
a  laughing-stock,  now  he'd  be  one  himself — "us,  too, 
I  suppose,  but  I  don't  care!" 


42  BRUTE  GODS 

Alec's  mind  went  to  the  adolescent  abortive  "love- 
affairs  ' '  of  Mervyn  and  himself,  to  the  peculiar  acute- 
ness  and  eagerness  of  his  father's  ridicule  of  them — 
an  eagerness  sharpened  by  jealousy,  if  the  boy  had 
known  it.  "How's  our  baby  Romeo  this  morning?" 
Mervyn  had  raised  his  hand  at  that  query,  afterwards 
he  told  Alec  that  he  had  wanted  to  hit  the  old  man 
hard:  "God  knows  why  I  didn't:  I  wish  I  had.  I 
will  next  time. ' '  But  nothing  came  of  that.  .  .  .  The 
curious  thing  was  that  the  father  seemed  furtively 
proud  of  Mervyn 's  amours,  just  as  he  was  of  Mervyn 's 
extravagances:  "Young  dog,  I  tell  you,  Resine — " 
Alec  had  overheard  the  sly  comment  to  their  doctor: 
"young  dog,  I  caught  him  .  .  .  better  look  out  for 
him,  Resine."  And  Dr.  Resine  had  laughed,  he  had 
said  something  about  "the  green  tree  and  the  dry." 
People  always  laughed  about  things  of  this  kind,  they 
laughed  or  they  were  oddly  excited,  or,  like  Mr.  Mc- 
Gill,  they  were  earnestly  disturbed. 

He  began  wondering  if  Frippie  Clark  would  be 
anywhere  about  that  morning.  He  hadn't  seen  her 
since  the  half-term  holiday — six  or  seven  weeks  ago. 
Mervyn  thought  him  "a  bit  of  a  rotter"  for  having 
anything  to  do  with  the  girl,  Mervyn  had  changed 
in  some  ways  since  he  got  engaged  to  Nita  Resine. 
Wilfred  Vail  disapproved,  too:  "I  don't  like  it, 
Alec,  your  fooling  about  with  these  village 
'mawthers.'  '  Alec  had  not  answered,  but  his  lips 
grew  grim.  He  resented  Wilfred's  speaking  of 
Frippie  as  though  there  were  lots  of  other  village 
girls  just  like  her.  She  was  quite  different,  she  didn't 


CONFUSIONS  43 

make  him  shy,  he  never  felt  himself  blushing  with 
her,  she  put  him  at  ease,  and  she  thought  something 
of  him.  Other  girls  didn't  tell  him  where  they  were 
going  to  pick  blackberries  or  look  for  fossil-shells, 
and  if  they  had,  they  wouldn't  have  been  alone  when 
he  got  there,  they  wouldn  't  have  said,  in  that  friendly 
way:  ''Well,  give  us  a  kiss,  come  on."  He  didn't 
care  whether  other  people  thought  he  ought  to  go 
seeing  Frippie  or  not;  he  didn't  care  now.  He  wasn't 
going  to  trouble  himself  any  more  about  whether  it 
was  right.  People  were  wrong  about  the  Mater's 
going  away,  and  they  were  probably  wrong  about 
other  things:  they  were  wrong  about  this.  He'd  do 
as  he  pleased :  he  'd  consult  himself,  not  them.  Byron 
had  done  as  he  pleased,  and  he  was  a  great  man. 
He'd  tell  Wilfred  that.  Again  Alec  swished  at  the 
gorse,  and  his  lips  tightened. 

His  father  had  said  that  he  was  to  be  careful  how 
he  behaved.  That  meant  that  his  good  behaviour 
would  be  a  sort  of  protection  to  his  father,  like  the 
neighbours'  sympathy,  like  their  opinions.  Well,  he 
wouldn't!  If  his  father  and  the  others  didn't  like  it, 
so  much  the  better. 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  arrival  at  Father  Collett's,  Alec  found  him- 
self nervous.  "Good  morning,"  he  said, 
without  looking  at  the  priest.  "I  didn't 
think  it  would  turn  out  so  fine,  did  you?  The  rain 
seems  quite  to  have — to  have — stopped  altogether,  you 
know. ' ' 

''My  dear  Alec,"  said  the  Anglican  Father.  He 
held  the  boy's  hand,  and  drew  him  towards  a  chair 
that  had  its  back  to  the  light. 

"You  heard  at  once,  I  suppose?" 

"Servants  are  couriers." 

"And  I  didn't  know — all  this  time." 

"My  dear  boy,  I  hope  this  won't  affect  your  life 
— wrongly.  It's  that  that  matters,  for  us." 

Alec  did  not  answer  nor  look  up.  In  reaction  to 
the  confusions  and  fermentations  and  exhaustions 
that  the  morning  had  dealt  him,  his  mind  lay  back: 
lying  in  the  wash  of  spent  emotion,  in  the  shallows 
left  by  his  broken  waves  of  anger  and  hate,  he  was 
relaxed,  exposed.  His  strained  will,  recalcitrant  and 
seeking  respite,  beckoned  to  the  sensory  pleasure  of 
surrender  to  the  priest's  spiritual  advances.  He  lay 
open  to  the  indulgence  of  this  so  complete  change 
of  stroke  and  play  upon  his  consciousness. 

Father  Collett  stood  away  from  the  boy,  looking 
down  at  him  with  his  live  black  eyes.  Cassock  and 

44 


CONFUSIONS  45 

tonsure  gave  new  values  of  force  to  his  powerful 
build,  to  his  swart  breadth  of  face.  After  awhile  he 
went  to  Alec,  he  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  feel  this  a  great  deal.  You  must  use  it. 
My  dear  Alec,  don't  let  it  warp  you,  don't  let  it 
tarnish  you.  You're  at  a  dangerous  age.  You  must 
master  this,  make  it  an  instrument." 

"My  stepmother  is  absolutely  in  the  right!"  Alec's 
former  emotions  flickered  suddenly. 

"Our  Lord  would  not  say  that." 

Father  Collett  sat  by  the  boy's  side,  and  drew  his 
chair  to  him.  One  of  the  things  Alec  had  first  liked 
him  for  was  that  he  did  not  say  ' '  Our  Lerd, ' '  like  most 
other  clergymen. 

"But  it  is  true,"  Collett  went  on,  "that  He  would 
not  judge  as  the  world  judges.  He  would  not  speak 
the  world 's  language  nor  think  the  world 's  thoughts. ' ' 
Alec  half -closed  his  eyes,  luxuriously  responsive  to  the 
familiar  measured  rhythm  of  the  priest's  voice.  It 
was  a  richly  charged  voice,  a  voice  of  deep  quiet 
flow.  "But  the  world's  errors  drive  us  to  errors. 
There  is  the  danger  for  you  now.  What  has  hap- 
pened should  show  you  where  the  real  division  in 
life  lies — the  division  between  the  life  spiritual  and 
the  life  material.  I  hope  it  will  show  you  that. 
Your  stepmother  was  caught  and  tangled,  poor  lady, 
in  one  worldly  net :  she  has  broken  from  that,  but  for 
what  ?  The  world  will  tangle  her  soul  no  less,  now. ' ' 

"Do  you  say  she  has  done  wrong,  then?" 

"Yes,  in  a  sense.  Because  she  has  done  a  vain 
thing,  a  thing  that  can  leave  no  posterity  for  her  soul. 


46  BRUTE  GODS 

Waste  and  dispersion  in  effort,  that  is  evil.  That  is 
what  evil  means." 

"That's  true,  Father— I've  felt  that—"  He 
looked  up,  the  priest's  eyes  subdued  him. 

"You  have  felt  it,  my  dear  son,  because  you  are 
ordained  to  the  spiritual  life."  Father  Collett's  tone 
was  possessingly  earnest.  ' '  Because  you  are  of  us.  It 
is  a  very  right  and  a  very  profound  instinct  that  urges 
you  against  condemnation  of  your  stepmother.  That 
condemnation  would  be  waste  of  the  energy  that  is 
given  you  for  reaching  up,  for  reaching  on — " 

"Of  course  I  don't  condemn  her!  I  condemn 
him!" 

"The  man?     This  Mr.—" 

"No,  my  father.  I  hate  him."  Alec  was  no  longer 
lapped  and  lulled. 

"Ah,  yes."  Father  Collett  paused.  "I  see.  But 
condemning  him  will  not  help  you,  it  will  frustrate 
you.  'Judge  not  that  ye  be  not — '  ' 

"But  I  want  to  be  judged !  I  want  every  one  to  be, 
and  then  we'd  have  it  all  cleared  up!  I  want  the 
Day  of  Judgment — "  The  boy  was  stirred  to  an  un- 
expected resistance.  "And  Christ  condemned,"  he 
added. 

"We  are  not  Christs.  Christ  knew  that  the  only 
way  to  achieve  the  only  end — that  is,  the  goal  of  com- 
plete spiritual  dedication — is  to  take  all  the  currents 
of  our  energy  and  feeling — hatred  and  ambition  and 
lust  and  love — and  turn  them  to  that  one  great  cur- 
rent of  the  true  life.  How  can  your  hatred  of  your 
father  minister  to  you — ?" 


CONFUSIONS  47 

"I  don't  want  it  to  minister  to  me.  You  don't 
know.  You  can't  know  how  he's  been — well,  how  he's 
been  hurting  us  all,  all  these  years,  trying  to  make 
everybody  look  ridiculous  and  feel  wretched.  He's 
a  bad  man — bad — and  he  ought  to  be  made  to  pay 
— he  ought  to  be  stopped!  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
would  go  on  just  putting  up  with  it?"  Alec  demanded 
passionately. 

"If  he  only  makes  people  wretched  and  ridiculous, 
that  is  nothing.  If  he  can  make  them  feel  vindictive 
and  destructive,  that  is  a  great  deal.  But  he  can't 
do  that — nobody  can  do  that.  The  responsibility  for 
these  feelings  of  yours  lies  with  yourself,  with  no  one 
else.  The  only  way,  dear  Alec,  that  you  can  fight 
against  evil  is  by  not  admitting  evil  past  the  gates 
of  your  own  spirit.  There  is  no  way  in  which  the 
world  can  know  good  except  the  way  of  individual 
spiritual  effort.  Each  must  seek  the  Kingdom  of 
God  for  himself,  must  seek  the  salvation  of  his  own 
soul.  Then  all  else  shall  be  added  to  him,  and,  at 
the  last,  to  his  brethren.  What  do  you  think  you 
can  do  by  hatred  of  your  father,  by  rebellion  against 
him,  by  'punishing'  him?  Whatever  evil  there  may 
be  in  him,  you  cannot  conquer  that:  the  conquest 
of  that  can  only  come  from  within — your  hostility 
cannot  help  his  soul — " 

"Oh,  I  hadn't  any  idea  of  helping  his  soul!"  Alec 
breathed  hard. 

"If  he  deserves  punishment,  God  will  punish  him, 
in  himself." 


48  BRUTE  GODS 

"I  don't  want  God's  way  of  punishing,  I  want 
mine!" 

"Well,  then!" 

The  priest  stood  up.  He  was  a  little  flushed,  his 
black  eyes  were  restless.  Alec's  determination 
troubled  him,  and  he  could  not  decide  how  best  to 
meet  it.  Leaning  on  the  mantelpiece,  he  became  con- 
scious of  his  own  physical  bulk,  conscious  of  the  full 
and  beating  flow  of  his  blood.  His  decision  hurried 
to  an  arresting  and  turning  of  the  boy  by  an  exposure 
of  himself,  by  personal  humiliation,  by  the  intimacy, 
by  the  thrill  that  would  come  of  this. 

"You  know  my  mother  was  a  Creole,"  he  said. 
"And  I've  heard  what  they  call  me  here.  They  call 
me  'the  black  bullock.'  " 

' '  Oh,  they  're  stupid  people,  everything  they  say  or 
think  is  wrong!" 

Father  Collett's  colour  deepened  with  pleasure  at 
the  boy's  championship.  "I  know  you  think  kindly 
of  me,  Alec.  Why  is  that — why  do  you?"  He  was 
even  faltering,  and  the  wistfulness  of  his  look  was 
strange  in  its  contrast  with  him. 

"Oh,  it's  because  you  take  me  away  from  every- 
thing! That's  what  it  is,  it's  something  like  dreams, 
the  sort  of  dreams  one  likes,  you  know.  I'm  not  in 
the  same  sort  of  time  when  I'm  with  you —  It's  all 
different—" 

"You  mean  that  I  touch  the  past  for  you?"  Col- 
lett  was  eager  and  pleased. 

"Yes.  I  don't  know — I  can't  talk  about  it,  but  I 
do  feel  it. — I  dreamt  I  was  in  some  woods  with  you, 


CONFUSIONS  49 

and  was  living  with  you,  only  you  weren't  a  priest — 
and  we  wore  things  that  you  see  in  old  pictures — 
green — sort  of  mediaeval  dress.  I  had  a  different 
name — Dexter  Foothood — extraordinary  sort  of  name. 
When  I  woke  up,  I  wrote  it  down,  or  I  should  have 
forgotten  it.  There  was  a  church,  and  we  went  in. 
They  were  burying  somebody  under  the  stone  floor: 
everything  was  Sarum  use — and,  it  was  absurd,  but 
I  was  the  person  they  were  burying,  in  a  way.  You 
know  how  mixed  up  things  are  in  dreams?" 

"Yes.  Yes?"  The  priest  was  listening  with  in- 
tent pleasure. 

"Oh,  that's  all."    Alec  shut  up,  embarrassed. 

' '  They  were  burying  you. ' '  The  fire  burnt  slow  in 
the  man's  eyes,  and  his  voice  had  the  grave  measure 
of  a  ritual.  "And  yet  you  lived:  and  you  lived  the 
more.  That  is  what  God  means  by  you,  and  by  me. 
Alec!  do  you  think  that  I  haven't  died — and  been 
buried — lost  my  life  to  save  it  ?  That  is  the  one  thing 
needful,  that  we,  after  the  Pattern  of  our  Saviour, 
should  die  that  we  may  rise  again.  Life  everlasting 
can  be  won  only  by  the  willing  and  conscious  re- 
nunciation of  the  life  of  the  flesh.  It  is  hard,  this 
renunciation,  but  how  much  harder  it  was  for  me  than 
for  you!" 

He  sat  down  again  by  Alec,  and  the  veins  of  the 
boy's  senses  grew  slowly  charged  by  him.  Again 
Alec  was  beckoned  to  an  easing  surrender,  a  surrender 
of  subtle  thrill  and  delicate  allure.  His  spent  emo- 
tion and  his  physical  hunger,  in  sweet  intrigue,  ex- 
posed him.  He  felt  a  little  faint,  and  that  faintness 


50  BRUTE  GODS 

indulged  him  luxuriously.  The  strong-bodied  priest 
could  not  know  this.  Alec  was  conscious  of  the 
privacy  of  his  feeling,  he  was  thus  farther  indulged. 
The  priest  was  a  vice  to  him. 

"You  don't  know,  dear  boy,  with  what  gross  beasts 
I  had  to  fight.  You  never  can  know,  because  God 
has  given  you  a  nature  of  far  greater  refinement  than 
mine.  But  I  did  overcome — God  forbid  that  I  should 
glory — "  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  "It  is 
in  Christ  that  I  glory  when  I  tell  you  of  this.  You 
are  nineteen  now.  When  I  was  nineteen  I  was 
capable  of  any  sin,  of  any  degradation.  I  was  guilty 
of  sin,  I  was  degraded.  And  now,  even  though  I  have 
conquered  in  Christ — the  mark  of  the  dead  beast  is 
in  my  face,  and  will  be  till  I  die.  Sometimes,  Alec, 
I  look  horrible — horrible — " 

The  boy  pleasurably  trembled.  ' '  You  never  would, 
to  me,"  he  said,  "never — " 

"Ah,  Alec!  Your  friendship  is  my  very  great  re- 
ward. These  temporary  rewards  are  allowed  us 
weaker  ones :  they  are  an  earnest,  a  pledge  to  comfort 
faith — a  symbol.  I  could  never  have  been  your  friend 
if  I  had  not  beaten  down  the  evil  in  me.  I  am  forty- 
three  years  old.  What  should  I  have  been  like,  now, 
after  twenty-six  years,  if  that  evil  had  beaten  me 
down?  You  would  have  shrunk  from  me — Alec — " 

"I  can't  imagine  you  any  different,  Father."  Alec 
enjoyed  the  slight  caress  that  he  gave  to  his  tone. 

"Ah,  I  cam,.  You  don't  know,  you  can't  know. 
But  the  enemies  of  your  soul  may  be  more  dangerous 
to  you  than  mine  were,  more  subtle,  because  they  are 


CONFUSIONS  51 

less  brutish.  Spiritual  pride  is  often  harder  to  over- 
come than  carnal  lust.  You  are  not  carnal,  Alec, 
but  you  have  flames  that  might  consume  you.  You 
have  fierce  energies,  hostile  energies,  energies  that 
would  destroy  you  in  seeking  to  destroy  others.  You 
could  be  proud  enough  to  dare  to  usurp  the  Judg- 
ment Seat  of  God!"  Alec  looked  away,  rather  em- 
barrassed, but  tremendously  flattered.  "These  ene- 
mies of  your  spirit  have  covered-up  faces,  mine 
showed  theirs  clear,  unmasked.  That  is  why  I  warn 
you  now,  because  you  have  craft  against  you ;  I  only 
had  force  that  could  be  met  with  force. — Oh,  my  dear 
boy,  this  is  the  truth,  the  truth  that  Christ  came  for. 
We  must  conquer,  we  must  sacrifice  everything  that 
stands  between  us  and  our  fulfilment — all  passions 
that  are  of  this  world.  Pride  and  hatred  must  be 
set  underfoot  no  less  than  lust — and  so  must  all 
worldly  action,  all  desires  that  bind  the  soul  to  the 
world's  wheels.  This  is  Christ's  teaching,  and  the 
proof  of  its  eternal  truth  is  that  no  human  being 
can  follow  it  utterly,  and  that  not  one  in  a  million  can 
follow  it  at  all!" 

The  priest  was  speaking  more  rapidly,  more 
strongly.  He  clasped  his  hands  and  looked  before 
him,  sitting  erect. 

"  Christ  commands  all  our  forces.  The  force  that 
would  make  a  man  a  great  leader  in  the  world,  a 
great  captain,  a  great  statesman,  a  great  poet  or 
painter  or  musician — whatever  is  the  force-in-chief 
of  a  man's  spirit,  that  must  be  taken  and  turned  and 
used  wholly  to  bear  the  soul  on  toward  its  consum- 


52  BRUTE  GODS 

mation!  These  men  of  action — men  of  worldly  note 
— men  of  great  careers — what  shall  it  profit  them? 
What  of  the  soul  that  is  theirs  and  God's?  To  abide 
in  the  sphere  of  one's  own  soul."  He  whispered  in 
a  passion  of  reverence.  "It  is  a  hard  saying,  but  it 
is  Christ's:  'How  hardly  shall  they  that  have 
riches — !'  He  means  riches  of  all  kinds,  not  wealth 
in  money  only — all  qualities  and  energies  that  are  of 
worldly  use.  Martha's  humble  household  helpful- 
ness— even  that — stayed  the  freedom  of  her  spiritual 
movement.  It  is  not  only  the  money-changers  who 
defile  the  Temple—" 

"But — I  couldn't  give  myself  up  like  that!  I 
never  could." 

' '  It  would  be  realizing  the  only  living  self  that  you 
have.  You  can  do  it,  Alec.  You  could  be  a  priest 
— a  true  priest.  I  am  utterly  sure  of  it — if  you 
will—" 

"You  want  me  to  leave  all  this — this  wrong  that 
my  father  has  done?"  Alec  spoke  under  the  sharp 
tremor  of  revived  feeling.  "You  want  me  to  leave 
all  that,  and  all  those  other  horrible  disgusting  things ! 
People  aren't  right  in  what  they  do  and  say  about 
what  they  call  'immorality,'  they  don't  understand. 
I  must  try — I  must  say  what  I  think.  It's  my  father 
who's  wicked  and  evil,  not  my  stepmother.  Why 
should  she  have  kept  on  with  him,  how  would  that 
have  helped  her,  spiritually  or  anyhow  else?  It 
would  have  been  just  the  opposite.  I  can't  see  how 
it  can  be  right  just  to  clear  out  and  think  of  what 
you  can  do  for  your  soul!" 


CONFUSIONS  53 

"It  is  right:  growth  of  one  soul  leads  on  the  growth 
of  others.  You  would  only  poison  yourself  by  this 
rebellion  and  revenge  and  hate,  and  you  would  cure 
nothing,  help  no  one.  It  is  perfectly  true  that  the 
world  condemns  sins  of  the  flesh  in  utter  blindness. 
Reject  the  world's  morality — yes:  but  your  rejection 
must  strengthen  your  acceptance  of  the  morality  of 
Christ.  Why  is  carnal  indulgence  wrong?  Not  be- 
cause of  any  evil  material  or  physical  effects  it  may 
have — often  no  such  effects  come  from  it.  But  if 
they  invariably  came — if  family  life  or  the  social 
system — the  property  idea — were  invariably  hurt  by 
what  is  called  unlawful  lust,  or  if  the  body's  health 
were  invariably  hurt — all  this  would  be  a  matter  of 
no  moment.  Christ  cared  nothing  for  bodily  health, 
He  cared  less  for  family  life  and  the  human  order- 
ings  of  His  day ;  He  was  even  against  them,  He  knew 
and  denounced  their  obstructiveness.  No.  Carnal  in- 
dulgence is  wrong  and  Christ  rejected  it  because  it 
draws  off  to  the  lower  life,  the  temporary  life,  all  the 
fervour,  the  force,  and  the  quickening  that  God  wills 
for  the  higher  life,  the  life  eternal.  It  is  a  misap- 
plication of  what  would  lead  you  to  God.  This  is  why 
the  greatest  sinners  are  so  near  akin  to  the  greatest 
saints.  Between  them  there  is  only  the  difference  of 
choice  of  direction — Saint  Augustine — the  Magda- 
lene—" 

"But  then — "  Alec's  gaze  was  fixed,  he  hesitated 
and  stammered,  while  the  priest  noticed  the  pallor 
that  heightened  his  dark  eyes.  "Then  how  about 


54  BRUTE  GODS 

marriage?  How  is  there  any  difference?  I  mean  in 
that  way — for — " 

He  faltered  and  closed  his  eyes  against  the  vertigo 
that  swayed  him ;  there  was  motion  of  blackness.  .  .  . 
Father  Collett  took  both  his  hands.  "Alec!  You're 
faint — my  boy — I  should  have  seen."  He  got  up 
and  went  hurriedly  over  to  the  bell. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  I  didn't  have  breakfast.  It's 
nothing — stupid  of  me." 

Alec  found  himself  pleasurably  engaged  with  this 
unaccustomed  physical  faintness,  he  allied  himself 
with  it,  he  enjoyed  being  put,  in  this  vagueness,  at 
the  mercy  of  what  might  come.  It  gave  him  a  new 
importance.  "This  is  why  people  fast,"  he  thought, 
and  he  recalled  a  contemptuous  observation  of  his 
father's  about  religious  visionaries:  "If  you  eat  too 
much,  you  dream  by  night;  if  you  eat  too  little,  you 
dream  by  day." 

"You  must  take  some  wine  and  food;  you  shall 
have  it  at  once." 

Again  the  priest's  fleshiness  weighted  him  as  he 
looked  down  at  the  boy's  face,  with  its  delicacy  of 
youth,  its  lightly  turned  contours,  all  its  fleeting  im- 
pressionable lines.  The  lips  were  now  loosely  set,  the 
mouth  looked  larger,  it  looked  unguarded.  The ' '  black 
bullock's"  eyes  softened  with  tenderness  and  admira- 
tion. This  boy  must  not  be  wasted  in  the  world — 
coarsened  by  the  world.  This  must  be  the  hour  of 
his  spiritual  weaning — the  very  hour.  The  priest's 
whole  frame  went  throbbing  to  win  this  boy  for  re- 
ligion, to  win  him  for  the  true  religious  life  that  was 


CONFUSIONS  55 

so  rare  now,  the  life  that  God,  in  His  wisdom,  had 
allowed  those  who  called  themselves  Christians  almost 
to  forget.  Ah,  if  he  could  win  Alec,  how  his  very 
soul  would  go  out  to  Christ,  in  blessed  fulfilment. 
"Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace 
— for  mine  eyes  have  seen  Thy  salvation."  He 
trembled  with  his  spiritual  passion,  he  drew  force  and 
shaking  ecstasy  for  this  passion  from  his  bodily 
strength.  "My  beloved  son,"  he  thought,  looking  at 
the  boy — and  the  phrase  smote  him  with  sweet 
violence  out  of  its  association  with  Christ.  It  was 
frightening  and  wonderful  to  think  it  of  Alec,  with 
the  Crucifix  in  view.  Ah,  he  would  take  him  by  the 
hand,  away  from  the  secular  strife,  from  vain  dis- 
cordance, from  worldly  evil,  from  the  soilures  of 
women,  and  before  the  Eternal  Altar  might  he  not 
greatly  triumph  with  him  under  the  "Will  of  God? 
' '  This  is  my  beloved  son — my  beloved — in  whom  Thou 
art  well  pleased.  I  have  brought  him — saved  him!" 
The  spiritual  egoist  vibrated  with  his  essential  thrill. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FATHER  COLLETT  chose  for  Alec  what  he 
judged  to  be  the  most  fortifying  of  the  few 
wines  he  had — a  Nuits  of  matured  virtue.  The 
boy  sipped  from  the  green  bowl  of  the  glass ;  with  the 
long  spirally  twisted  stem  slim  to  his  fingers,  he  re- 
sponded to  the  instant  working  of  the  wine  upon  his 
blood.  In  his  cheeks  he  felt  a  luxurious  and  gradual 
flicker,  there  was  a  light  wavy  motion  of  colour  in 
his  brain:  the  refreshment  in  languor  was  exquisite. 

He  took  luncheon  with  the  priest,  and  it  seemed 
that  no  food  had  ever  tasted  more  delicious  than  the 
anchovies  and  the  crisp  fried  sole  of  that  meal.  The 
Nuits  was  by  the  side  of  his  plate,  and  he  filled  a 
second  glass,  happily  surprised  by  the  variation  of 
the  wine's  flavour  to  harmony  with  the  taste  of  the 
fish.  His  father  was  out  of  his  mind. 

"This  must  be  a  fine  claret."  He  wanted  the 
prestige  of  a  connoisseur. 

"Comparatively,  perhaps."  Father  Collett  did  not 
correct  the  boy's  mistake.  He  looked  at  him,  noting 
his  flush.  "It  wouldn't  be  wise,  though — forgive  me, 
Alec,  but  after  you  have  been  feeling  faint — I 
shouldn't  take  more  than  two  glasses."  He  poured 
his  own  wine — a  white  Bordeaux — from  its  glass,  and 
filled  up  the  tumbler  with  soda-water. 

"Some  people  think  it's  wrong  to  drink  at  all," 
56 


CONFUSIONS  57 

said  Alec  musingly.  "  There  are  so  many  different 
things  that  people  think  wrong.  They  can't  all  be 
right — I  mean  about  all  these  things.  How  is  one  to 
know?" 

' '  Our  Lord  knew  what  was  good  and  what  was  evil. 
"We  have  His  guidance.  He  turned  water  into  wine, 
and  wine  into  His  own  blood.  If  wine  were  evil,  He 
would  not  have  chosen  it  to  express  the  most 
tremendous  mystery  of  His  Faith.  Surely  that  is 
clear — " 

"It  doesn't  seem  clear  to  all  these  Baptists  and 
Methodists  and  Wesleyans — " 

"My  dear  boy,  their  stupid  virulence  against  wine 
is  only  one  of  their  many  stupid  and  unpleasant 
heresies.  Wine  is  eschewed  by  heretics  and  Ma- 
hometans. They  hardly  concern  us."  The  priest 
spoke  lightly,  almost  humorously,  as  he  poured  a  little 
more  Bordeaux  into  his  glass.  "Harry — "  he  ad- 
dressed his  boy  servant,  who  came  in  at  that  moment, 
"tell  Eugene  to  cook  us  something  more.  We  were 
late  getting  to  lunch  today,"  he  added  to  Alec,  en- 
joying using  an  expression  that  suggested  their  living 
together.  He  had  seen  that  the  fish  hardly  met  the 
boy's  appetite  half-way. 

"It's  much  nicer  not  being  waited  on  by  maids," 
said  Alec  as  the  door  closed.  He  felt  remarkably 
happy,  remarkably  well  placed;  and  disposed  to  a 
light  haphazard  ranging  along  the  topics  of  easy 
moments. 

' '  The  war  constrained  me  to  a  parlourmaid — for  one 
week.  She  breathed  down  my  neck,  and  the  terrible 


58  BRUTE  GODS 

memory  of  that  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  write 
my  sermons.  For  some  time  I  used  to  wait  on  my- 
self— you  remember? — and  I  did  it  very  badly,  but 
happily  it  is  a  physical  impossibility  to  breathe  down 
one's  own  neck,  and  even  if  it  were  not,  the  torment 
would  be  more  tolerable,  self-inflicted." 

Alec  filled  his  glass  again  with  the  Burgundy. 
Father  Collett  shook  his  head  at  him. 

"A  shocking  scene,"  he  remarked.  "A  warning, 
an  awful  warning.  Some  one  should  really  have  it 
done  as  an  oleograph  for  decoration  of  the  very  veri- 
est of  Free  Church  homes.  'The  proselytizing  priest 
— plying  his  victim  with  strong  drink.' — 'Weaken- 
ing the  Will:  or  the  First  Step  to  Rome.'  It  would 
look  well  on  one  of  those  Protestant  Calendars. 
'Reeling  Romeward' — perhaps  that  is  neater.  What 
will  happen  to  me,  Alec,  if  Mr.  Edgar  Carrick — 'the 
Reverend  Carrick,'  I  should  say — should  chance  to 
pass  by  when  you  totter  wine-stained  from  my  gate? 
No,  no,  that  must  never  be ! "  he  cried,  laying  his  hand 
for  an  instant  on  the  bottle. 

"All  right.     I  won't  take  any  more." 

Cutlets  were  brought,  with  green  peas ;  the  boy  ate 
heartily,  Father  Collett  took  only  a  few  mouthfuls. 
He  kept  his  bantering  tone,  playing  on  with  his 
priestly-holiday  raillery,  his  churchy  frivolity  that 
showed  such  sad  decay  from  the  old-time  mirth  of  re- 
fectory and  cloister.  On  Father  Collett  this 
"humour"  had  been  artificially  imposed  by  his 
associations.  Alec  accepted  it  uncritically  as  some- 
thing that  had  to  do  with  the  priest — like  his  clothes ; 


CONFUSIONS  59 

not  really  important.  He  lazily  remembered  that 
Mervyn  didn  't  like  Father  Collett  's  jokes.  ' '  When  he 
tries  to  be  funny  he  simply  sets  my  teeth  on  edge.  I 
think  he's  awful."  Alec  didn't  mind.  Dr.  Resine's 
jokes  were  what  he  couldn't  stand,  because  he  didn't 
like  Dr.  Resine.  He  looked  up  at  Father  Collett  and 
liked  very  much  the  look  of  fondness  for  him  in  the 
sloe-black  eyes:  and  there  was  a  gratifying  confirma- 
tion of  the  priest's  friendly  individuality  in  those 
joined  soft  dense  eyebrows,  unlike  the  eyebrows  of  any 
one  else,  for  one  was  glossy-black,  the  other  white  as 
milk,  with  the  bridging  hair  of  an  intermediate  grey. 
This  physical  peculiarity  seemed  in  some  way  co- 
operative with  affection. 

Alec,  in  being  fed,  and  fed  so  well — his  father's 
cook  was  no  expert — grew  sportive,  he  wanted  to 
tease,  knowing  the  priest  was  fond  of  him ;  he  wanted 
to  make  him  do  something  that  would  be  rather 
agitating  to  him,  wanted  to  stir  conflict  between  the 
promptings  of  good  judgment  and  the  promptings  of 
fondness.  His  instinct  was  like  that  of  a  woman 
who  counterbalances  and  overcomes  the  strength  of 
her  man  by  her  advantage  in  his  being  a  good  deal 
more  committed  to  his  affection  than  she  to  hers. 
Alec  cast  about  for  some  caprice,  some  whim  that 
would  trouble  his  companion  a  little,  move  him  to  a 
troubled  resistance,  divide  his  will :  it  was  the  flattery 
of  this  sport  that  he  wanted,  and  then  the  flattery 
of  the  priest's  yielding  to  him,  as  he  knew  he  would. 
He  must  feel  his  power,  this  way. 

"I  wish  I  knew  more  about  wine,"  he  said  sud- 


60  BRUTE  GODS 

denly.  "I  mean  what  wines  go  with  what  food. 
You  take  the  stronger  wines  and  liqueurs  after  eating, 
don't  you?" 

"You  don't.  At  least  not  when  you're  lunching 
with  me. ' '  Father  Collett  looked  ' '  comically  severe. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  I  meant  people  generally — of  course.  I  know 
you  never  drink  champagne  with  fish." 

"No,  that  would  be  cruelty  to  the  fish.  Unless 
they're  crustaceans,  they  resent  it  extremely.  And 
they  spoil  the  champagne,  in  revenge." 

"I  remember  my  father  laughing  at  the  Markby- 
Levins  because  they  served  champagne  with  turbot  at 
one  of  their  dinners.  He  said  it  showed  what  kind  of 
people  they  were." 

"Ah.  In  that  case  the  turbot  was  avenged  by  im- 
pugning the  gentility  of  his  tormentors." 

"Brandy's  the  same  kind  of  thing  as  champagne, 
isn't  it?  Made  of  the  same  grapes,  I  mean?" 

"Unless  we  chance  to  be  deceived,  Alec." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  drink  brandy  with 
fish,  would  you?  But  you  could  afterwards,  with 
coffee?" 

"It  would  be  possible.  Without  forfeiting  all 
claim  to  good  breeding. ' '  The  priest  sipped  from  his 
coffee  cup,  and  then  remarked :  "Will  you  take  sugar 
with  yours?" 

"I  have  sugar,  thanks." 

"And  I  won't  offer  you  milk  or  cream,  I  won't 
countenance  that  atrocious  Anglo-Saxon  barbarism. 
So — well — "  Father  Collett  was  evidently  a  little 
uneasy. 


CONFUSIONS  61 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you've  given  it  all  away  to  the  sick 
parishioners ! ' ' 

"'It'?  What  is  'it'?— My  dear  boy,  old  Mrs. 
Mudd  must  have  finished  my  last  bottle — drained  it 
to  the  dregs — every  drop.  Poor  soul,  it  made  her  so 
happy,  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  stop  her.  ' That  du  hully 
fare  good  in  the  innards,'  she  said.  You  see  I  haven't 
learnt  to  talk  Suffolk  yet,  and  I  doubt  if  I  ever  shall ! 
I'm  no  linguist." 

"Just  a  liqueur  glass  wouldn't  hurt,  would  it, 
Father?"  Alec  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  faintly 
smiled  his  confident  mischief.  "I  didn't  take  another 
glass  of  the  wine,"  he  added,  with  a  rather  touchy 
plaintiveness. 

"But,  my  dear  innocent  child,  don't  you  know  that 
brandy  is  much  stronger  than  Nuits — ?" 

"Yes,  but  the  glass  is  ever  so  much  smaller — ever 
so  much  smaller." 

The  iteration  of  the  phrase  harmonized  peculiarly 
with  the  mood  that  the  rich  wine  and  plentiful  meal 
had  brought  him — a  mood  that  lent  the  boy  a  sense 
of  command  at  leisure,  a  sense  of  being  able  to  afford 
to  wait  in  this  unusual  blurred  relaxation,  to  wait  and 
to  win.  If  he  could  always  have  a  little  wine,  he 
thought,  he  would  never  be  embarrassed.  Nothing 
could  make  him  blush  now. 

"Really,  Alec—"  Father  Collett  spoke  after  a 
pause,  and  his  tone  was  seriously  touched.  "I  would 
rather  you  didn't  have  the  brandy.  Of  course  I'm 
your  host — I — " 

"Oh,  don't  give  it  to  me  because  you're  my  host! 


62  BRUTE  GODS 

As  if  I  thought  of  you  as  a  host!"  He  spoke  with 
shy  affection. 

The  priest  was  moved.  "You're  a  young  rogue, 
I'm  afraid,"  he  murmured.  His  eyes  moistened,  and 
Alec  knew  that  he  would  give  in.  He  waited,  not 
drinking  his  coffee.  "But  I  don't  want  to  give  you 
brandy,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to — now,  do  you?" 

"Well,  of  course  if  you  think  I'm  a  baby!" 

Father  Collett  rose,  rueful.  His  emotions  were 
much  more  entangled  than  the  boy  could  imagine.  He 
was  resentful,  a  little,  of  the  forcing  of  his  will,  but 
it  was  much  more  important  to  him  that  he  was  under 
temptation,  that  he  was  most  self-reproachfully  and 
wrestlingly  conscious  of  the  secular,  all  too  secular 
pleasure  that  hedonists  feel  in  giving  attractive 
young  people  more  than  enough  to  drink.  As  he  went 
to  the  sideboard  he  prayed  for  strength  of  resistance. 

"Is  that  the  brandy?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Alec?" 

"  'Cognac,'  it  says  on  the  label." 

"Well,  cognac  is  brandy.  The  kind  you  take  with 
coffee." 

"Yes,  but — oh,  I  say,  Father,  couldn't  you  give  me 
some  of  the  kind  you  gave  Mervyn  ?  You  know,  that 
time  he  was  caught  in  the  storm  and  got  wet  through. 
He  said  it  was  the  finest  stuff  he  'd  ever  tasted.  Just 
one  glass — one  of  those  little  glasses — you  really  might 
— it  wouldn't  matter  for  once — "  He  pleaded  charm- 
ingly, and  Father  Collett  was  disturbingly  open  to  the 
charm. 

"You'll  make  a  Methodist  of  me,  if  you  go  on." 


CONFUSIONS  63 

He  wavered,  while  Alec  luxuriated  in  his  tyranny  that 
was  so  favoured,  so  secure. 

"It's  really  too  bad  of  you,  Alec — and  my  niece 
Gillian  is  dining  with  me  tonight,  too." 

"Whatever  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  Alec 
laughed. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  ask  if  you  knew  her,  you 
wouldn't  indeed.  She's — well,  she's  an  extremely 
agitating  person — " 

"Is  the  real  brandy  in  the  sideboard,  too,  or  do  you 
keep  it  in  the  cellar  ? ' ' 

"Here!  It's  here!"  Collett  spoke  sharply  and 
excitedly,  with  a  quick  shrug.  "All  right,  I  give 
up."  He  turned  in  his  chair  and  took  out  a  dif- 
ferent bottle.  "My  niece,  you  see — "  Again  he 
hesitated,  then  filled  a  liqueur  glass  for  Alec  and 
pushed  it  to  him. 

The  boy  took  it,  watching,  not  drinking  at  once. 
"You  never  told  me  you  had  a  niece?" 

"Oh,  Gillian  is  a  very  dark  secret.  Besides,  it's 
only  quite  lately  that  she's  been  about  here  at  all 
— and  you  were  at  school. ' ' 

"Why  is  she— agitating?" 

"Oh,  she  talks  about  things  that  don't  concern  me, 
the  sort  of  things  I  have  no  opinion  on.  You  see, 
Alec,  when  I  decided  to  become  a  priest  I  decided 
at  the  same  time  to  keep  clear,  altogether,  of  all  the 
disputes  of  our  times.  Even  religious  disputes.  I 
am  no  controversialist."  He  spoke  with  a  shade  of 
contempt.  "We  shouldn't  be  seduced  by  cleverness. 
We  should  tame  it!" 


64  BRUTE  GODS 

"She's  clever,  then,  is  she?" 

"Oh,  Gillian  lives  in  disputation,  she  lives  in  noth- 
ing else.  We  don't  speak  one  another's  language, 
it's  very  trying.  She's  a  disciple  of  freedom  for  her 
sex — a  preacher  of  it.  Heaven  knows  what  more 
freedom  they  want.  They  got  the  vote,  I'd  hoped 
that  would  keep  them  quiet — " 

"Where  is  she  staying?"  Alec  had  forgotten  his 
brandy. 

"Oh,  let  me  see— " 

"Why  surely  you  know?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course — just  for  the  moment  I — " 
The  priest  was  disconcerted.  He  wished  he  had  not 
mentioned  Gillian  in  that  moment  when  he  was  reach- 
ing out  for  some  topic  to  divert  the  boy. — Still,  Gillian 
was  not  so  very  young,  she  was  twenty-six.  He  must 
represent  her  as  a  blue-stocking.  "She's  staying  with 
the  Burkes."  He  had  to  answer  Alec's  expectant 
look.  "She  knows  them  in  London.  Miss  Burke  is 
coming  to  dinner  with  her,  and  I'm  sure  I  hope  she'll 
keep  her  in  order.  I  shan't  be  able  to — not  after 
your  bad  behaviour ! ' ' 

Alec  was  reminded,  and  drank.  "The  coffee's 
cold,"  he  said  mischievously,  "I  won't  waste  it  on 
that."  Unversed  though  he  was,  he  could  respond  to 
that  crispness  and  sharpness  of  old  brandy,  to  that 
hint  it  gives  of  the  dry  curl-back  and  crackle  of 
champagne,  while  holding  off  in  finer  reserve  from 
the  welcoming  palate. 

"What  a  ripping  brandy!  It's  worth  behaving 
badly  to  get  it. — Would  your  niece  think  my  step- 


CONFUSIONS  65 

mother  was  right?  Is  her  name  the  same  as 
yours  ? ' ' 

''Gillian  Collett  would  think  anything  right  that 
most  other  people  think  wrong.  I  often  tell  her 
that  she's  wonderfully  simple — " 

"I'd  like  to  meet  her!     Here's  her  good  health!" 

"My  dear  boy," — the  priest  rose  hurriedly — "do 
you  know  it's  nearly  three  o'clock?" 

"Is  it?  And  I  ought  to  have  been  home  at  twelve 
for  the  guv 'nor 's  pi.  jaw —  Oh,  sorry!" 

"Why?"  Father  Collett  opened  the  door.  "Be- 
cause your  name  for  a  moral  talk  throws  ridicule  on 
part  of  the  stock-in-trade  of  my  profession  ?  Well ! ' ' 
He  laughed  and  went  on  into  the  study. 

The  boy's  sense  of  well-being  flowered  richly.  It 
seemed  so  good,  all  this:  the  well-appointed  orderly 
little  house,  the  religious  pictures  of  subdued  colour, 
the  shelves  with  their  peaceful  weight  of  books,  the 
French  windows  opening  out  to  the  amiable  warmth 
that  the  afternoon  had  brought,  the  quiet  smooth 
green  lawn  that  lay  beyond — and  all  these  pleasant 
things  were  so  wonderfully  ripened  and  secured  by 
the  good  food,  the  good  drink,  by  the  lingering  din- 
ing-room impression  of  white  linen  and  bright  silver, 
cut  glass  and  flowers  and  china.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  you  know,  Alec." 

"Oh  .  .  .  yes."  Alec  took  a  cigarette  from  a 
gold  and  blue  box,  stamped  with  the  arms  of  Siena, 
and  the  priest  lighted  it  for  him  gravely.  "What 
kind  of  a  girl  is  your  niece,  Father?  You  don't  mind 
my  asking?" 


66  BRUTE  GODS 

"Oh,  haven't  I  given  you  an  idea  of  her?"  The 
priest's  face  clouded. 

"Yes — but  I  mean — well,  in  herself,  you  know. 
What  exactly  does  she  do?  Does  she  do  anything?" 

"My  dear  boy,  she's  always  doing  everything !  She 
edits  a  paper  called  The  Woman's  Republic  that 
nothing  would  induce  me  to  read.  She  used  to  work 
in  one  of  those  Government  Offices  in  London.  She 
writes  articles,  she  speaks  in  public.  She 's  been  doing 
that  kind  of  thing  for  nearly  ten  years."  His  em- 
phasis of  the  period  of  time  was  almost  feminine. 

"Oh. — But  why  don't  you  tell  me  what  she's  like?" 
Alec  insisted,  partly  out  of  curiosity,  partly  from  a 
wish  to  tease  the  priest's  reluctance. 

"I  can't  describe  people.  She's  dark — she's  about 
the  usual  height,  I  suppose — she's — oh,  really,  Alec, 
I  don't  know!  She  looks  younger  than  she  is,  I 
think." 

"Well,  she  couldn't  be  so  awfully  old,  being  your 
niece. ' ' 

"My  elder  brother's  daughter.  He  married  young. 
— My  dear  boy,  don't  you  want  to  talk  to  me  about 
yourself?  Isn't  there  anything — ?" 

Alec  shook  his  head  and  looked  down.  He  felt 
ashamed,  because  the  conversation  about  Gillian 
Collett  had  suggested  the  girl  Frippie  to  his  mind, 
in  a  way  not  congruous  with  the  priest's  spiritual 
philosophy. 

Father  Collett  was  silent.  He  took  a  cigarette, 
turned  it  over  and  scrutinized  it,  as  though  it  were 
some  rare  insect  or  moth.  "Alec,"  he  said  at  last, 


CONFUSIONS  67 

"there  was  a  boy  came  to  me  this  morning,  just  be- 
fore you  were  here.  He  had  wronged  a  young  girl, 
and  he  came  to  ask  me  if  he  should  marry  her.  He 
said  he  would  if  I  told  him  to.  She  will  have  a 
child  very  soon." 

"Who  is  she?    Do  I  know  her?" 

"Oh,  one  of  the  village  girls.  I  advised  him — 
strongly — not  to  marry  her.  Because  I  know  that 
the  marriage  would  spoil  his  life.  She's  a  light  girl, 
they're  utterly  unsuited;  and  it  was  all  much  more 
her  fault  than  his.  I  very  much  doubt  if  he's  the 
only  one."  He  gave  Alec  a  close  sudden  look. 
"Surely  I  was  right.  Christ's  bidding  was  to  give 
up  wives  for  His  sake,  not  to  take  them." 

"Yes,  imagine,  how  ridiculous,  if  he'd  told  Mary 
Magdalene  to  take  a  husband!" 

"Of  all  her  sins  that  might  have  been  the  worst." 

"Would  you  say  that  in  a  sermon?"  Alec  was  ex- 
cited by  the  thought. 

' '  It  might  have  led  her  the  furthest  from  God. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  who  is  this  girl?" 

"Yes,  I  did  right.  I  think  I  did  right.  But  it 
would  have  been  altogether  impossible  for  me  to 
have  done  differently.  Altogether. — Oh,  if  I  could 
bring  to  you — if  only  I  could,  Alec — the  feeling  of 
chastity  in  youth  as  a  beautiful  thing — in  itself.  If 
I  could  give  you  the  sense  of  the  romance  and  fer- 
vour— the  fervent  mysteries  of  abstinence,  of  re- 
nunciation!" His  black  eyes  flashed. 

"Yes,  but —  Look  here,  then  how  about  married 
people?  I  was  going  to  ask  you.  Marrying  can't 


68  BRUTE  GODS 

be  right,  can  it?  If  a  man's  a  rip,  he  can  clear  out 
of  it,  so  can  a  woman,  just  like  Mary  Magdalene. 
They  can  get  away  and  be  spiritual — but  a  husband 
can't,  and  a  wife  can't,  unless  she's  got  some  other 
man  to  take  her  away,  like  the  Mater,  and  you  say 
that's  just  as  bad.  I  say,  Father,  why  don't  you 
preach  all  these  things  you  tell  me,  say  it  in  church, 
I  mean,  next  Sunday?  That'd  make  them  sit  up! 
Say  what  you  said  just  now  about  Mary  Magdalene 
— won't  you?" 

"Oh,  Alec!  No.  To  say  that  in  a  sermon.  It 
would  turn  to  poison  in  people's  minds.  It  would 
be  a  stumbling-block  to  the  simple.  It  might  destroy 
what  influence  I  have."  Father  Collett's  face 
twitched.  "I  can't  attack  marriage."  He  spoke 
feebly,  unlike  himself:  Alec's  suggestion  had  alarmed 
him.  "And  I'm  unmarried.  Oh,  it  would  sound 
absurd,  they'd — " 

"Well,  you  couldn't  say  it,  could  you,  Father,  if  you 
had  a  wife!  And  tell  them  all  about  how  running 
after  girls  and  being  a  bad  lot  that  way  isn't  nearly  so 
bad  as  the  things  these  people  do  who  think  they're 
quite  'pi.'  Do  tell  them  the  real  reason  why  going 
with  girls  is  wrong,  and  that  the  bigger  rip  a  chap  is 
the  better  chance  he  has  of  being  religious.  That  was 
jolly  fine,  I  thought;  it  was  quite  different  to  what 
people  get  up  and  say  in  church.  But  the  part  about 
marriage,  that's  the  most  important.  Oh,  you  must!" 

"I  shouldn't  be  understood.  I  should  be  accused 
of  morbidity  and  pruriency  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
You  see,  Alec — " 


CONFUSIONS  69 

"You  will  preach,  that  sermon,  Father?"  Alec 
was  spurred  by  the  excitement  of  a  rising  sense  of 
power:  he  could  compel  the  priest,  he  felt.  "Yes? 
To  please  me?" 

Collett  looked  at  him,  and  then  looked  away  at 
once.  He  trembled.  His  celibacy  and  religious  de- 
votion had  impaired  the  natural  virility  of  his  affec- 
tions, had  made  him  subject  to  the  kind  of  sexless 
fever  that  young  girls  have  for  one  another.  "I'll 
preach  it, ' '  he  said. 

Alec  rose,  delighted.  "It'll  be  one  for  the  guv'- 
nor!"  he  cried.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  priest's. 
Collett  drew  back.  "Next  Sunday?"  the  boy  asked. 

"Yes,  next  Sunday." 

' '  It  doesn  't  make  you — really  unhappy  ? ' ' 

"You  don't  care  if  it  does." 

"Of  course  I  care!"  Alec  reacted  from  his  tri- 
umph, but  was  the  more  stubborn  for  his  reaction. 
"  I  '11  get  the  guv  'nor  to  go, ' '  he  said.  ' '  He  '11  see— ' ' 

"You  know,  Alec,  that  boy  asked  me  if  he  could 
say  how  I  had  advised  him.  Of  course  I  told  him 
yes.  Well,  it  is  all  over  the  village  and  beyond  by 
now.  They'll  all  connect  whatever  I  say  on  Sun- 
day—" 

"Yes,  and  they'll  connect  it  with  my  stepmother 
too,  won't  they?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Coming  from  you,  it  will  be  splendid!  It'll  show 
them!" 

"Well,  I've  given  you  my  word." 

"I  must  get  back.    I  mustn't  miss  tea  as  well  as 


70  BRUTE  GODS 

lunch,  and  the  guv 'nor 's  pi.-jaw.  I  wonder  what  he 
said.  I  know  the  kind  of  thing,  all  of  it  rot.  It's 
only  because  he's  hit  that  he  minds.  Good-bye,  and 
thanks  awfully." 

"I  was  saying — you  remember — that  I  couldn't 
have  acted  differently  in  that  matter.  .  .  .  That  boy. 
.  .  .  Because  I  was  once  exactly  in  his  case,  and  I  did 
not  marry." 

"What,  you?"  Alec  stopped  short,  he  did  not 
look  at  the  priest,  it  seemed  improper  to  look  at 
him. 

"I  was  younger  than  you  at  the  time.  I  was  just 
seventeen."  He  forced  himself  to  look  at  Alec. 
"And  the  girl  was  not  of  another  class.  So  naturally 
pressure  was  brought  on  me.  But  I  would  not  give 
in — and  I  know  I  was  right.  I'm  more  sure  of  it 
now  than  I  was  then.  Jealousies  and  hates  would 
have  taken  the  place  of  carnal  love — a  life-long  bar- 
rier for  the  soul — " 

"Yes,  it  would  be  extraordinary  for  you  to  be 
married. ' ' 

"It  would  have  changed  my  whole  life — not  for 
good!  I  couldn't  have  told  the  boy  to — " 

Alec's  lips  were  tight  set.  "It's  unfair!"  was  his 
mastering  thought.  Father  Collett  wanted  him  to 
resist  his  temptations,  wanted  him  to  keep  away  from 
girls — and  all  the  while  he  had  had  his  time  of  that 
when  he  was  Alec's  age — when  he  was  two  years 
younger!  The  boy  felt  that  he  had  been  cheated 
out  of  two  years.  He  was  jealous  and  resentful. 
He  was  nineteen  and  he  had  never —  What  would  it 


CONFUSIONS  71 

be  like,  then,  this  thing  that  every  one,  Father 
Collett  as  well  as  the  others,  made  put  to  be  so 
awfully  important?  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  know,  that  he  wouldn't  be  kept  out  any  longer. 
Father  Collett  had  been  only  seventeen. 

"Were  you — "  He  hesitated,  and  his  tone  was 
strained,  unnaturally  dry.  "Were  you  tremendously 
in  love  with  her  and  all  that?  She  must  have  been 
awfully  fond  of  you. ' ' 

"Of  course  we  were  a  very  strong  temptation  to 
one  another."  The  priest  ran  his  fingers  in  tight 
pressure  along  his  forehead.  "Don't  ask  me  about 
it,  Alec." 

' '  He  had  that, ' '  Alec  thought.  ' '  He  had  all  that. ' ' 
His  imagination  leaped  burningly.  "Well,  good- 
bye," he  said. 

"Tell  me."  Collett  was  conscious  of  the  warm 
tremor  of  the  boy's  hand.  "You  will  let  me  ask. 
You  are  still — untouched,  aren't  you?  You  would 
tell  me  if —  You  haven't,  ever — ?" 

"No,  I  haven't!" 

"Thank  God!  I  had  even  thought — forgive  me 
for  it — that  you  might  be  the  father — " 

" 'The  father'!     What  of  ?" 

"My  dear  boy !  What  a  relief  to  me  to  be  sure — to 
know  that  you're  still — " 

"Yes,  I  am!"  Alec  amazed  the  other  by  the  vivid 
pique  of  his  tone.  "But — "  He  hesitated,  breathing 
hard,  then:  "But  I  won't  be,  though!"  He  let  the 
priest  have  it,  revenging  his  pique  by  the  cruelty  of 
the  stroke. 


72  BRUTE  GODS 

Collett  looked  at  him  with  sorrow  so  deep  in  his 
eyes  that  Alec  felt  shamed  and  regretful,  felt  that 
he  had  been  a  brute  to  say  that.  "One  feels  differ- 
ently at  different  times,  you  know,"  he  stammered. 

"Alec!  Is  it  because  I  told  you,  because  you  know 
that  I — ?  I  shouldn't  have  told.  I  was  wrong." 
His  mouth  quivered. 

"Oh,  no,  it  wasn't  that!"  The  true  conjecture 
touched  Alec's  pride. 

"You  know  what  great  grief  I  should  feel  if  you 
stumbled  because  of  me.  You  know  the  feeling  I 
have  for  you,  Alec."  He  put  out  his  hand,  and  Alec, 
unconsciously,  out  of  his  impatience  to  be  off,  moved 
from  him.  "Forgive  me."  Collett 's  eyes  looked 
hurt.  ' '  My  dear  Alec — ' ' 

He  left  him,  and  went  through  into  the  little  room 
opening  out  from  his  study,  a  bare  room  where  he 
prayed  and  sometimes  wrote  his  sermons.  This  ser- 
mon must  be  written  at  once.  He  took  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  wrote  out  three  texts  slowly  and  carefully : 

There  is  no  man  that  hath  left  house,  or  parents,  or 
'brethren,  or  wife,  or  children,  for  the  Kingdom  of 
God's  sake,  who  shall  not  receive  manifold  more  in  this 
present  time,  and  in  the  world  to  come,  life  everlast- 
ing. 

If  any  man  come  to  Me,  and  hate  not  his  father, 
and  mother,  and  wife  and  children  and  brethren  and 
sisters,  yea,  and  his  own  life  also,  he  cannot  be  my 
disciple. 


CONFUSIONS  73 

The  publicans  and  the  harlots  go  into  the  Kingdom 
of  God  before  you. 

"Hate  his  father."  The  priest  knew  that  he  had 
done  nothing  to  quell  in  Alec  that  other,  that  secular 
and  self-destructive  hate.  He  had  indeed  consented 
to  gratify  it  by  this  sermon.  He  had  had  to  consent. 
"If  he  had  told  me  to  speak  of  my  sin — to  confess 
that  from  the  pulpit — I  think  I  would  do  that  too, 
if  he  told  me. ' '  Collett  rejoiced,  fiercely  and  bitterly, 
in  his  sense  of  that  subordination,  of  that  sacrifice 
that  he  would  be  willing  for.  Then  the  strange 
violent  joy  that  he  had  was  darkened  and  overpowered 
by  sense  of  guilt;  guilt  towards  himself  and  guilt 
towards  the  boy  who  could  so  move  him.  .  .  .  The 
fangs  of  doubt,  as  never  before  so  strongly,  assailed 
him :  a  terrible  vision  unfolded  of  the  world  as  it  had 
been  since  Christ.  What  if  Christ 's  death  had  brought 
only  a  strengthening  of  the  bonds  of  the  world's 
folly,  the  world's  brutality?  What  if  the  last  horrid 
wail  of  disillusion  and  disbelief,  three  thousand  years 
after  the  Crucifixion,  should  go  up  to  an  empty  place  ? 
Ah,  how  far  more  dreadful  and  final,  that,  than  the 
"My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me?" 
Could  that  cry  have  been  torn  from  Jesus  by  a 
prophetic  vision  of  the  end  of  the  human  soul?  The 
priest  tried  to  assure  himself  that  the  centuries  since 
the  Crucifixion  were  only  a  moment  in  God's  sight, 
that  our  minds  could  not  reason  from  them.  .  .  . 

He  bent  his  head,  failing.  In  Flanders  these  ter- 
rors had  not  come  to  him.  He  realized  that  the  hap- 


74  BRUTE  GODS 

piest  and  serenest  time  of  his  life  had  been  then,  amid 
bursting  shells  and  bombs,  amid  mortal  danger  and 
mortal  pain.  What  weakness,  what  cowardice,  he 
thought,  to  stand  in  need  of  such  help — outward,  acci- 
dental. 

He  reverted  to  Alec.  "I  cannot  lead  him  to  Life, 
I  am  too  fond  of  him.  I  am  not  stronger  than  my 
affection  for  him.  That  makes  me  an  imperfect  in- 
strument." Perhaps  he  might  even  be  an  instru- 
ment of  evil  for  the  boy.  Why  had  he  spoken  of 
Gillian?  Alec  was  interested  now  in  Gillian,  and 
Gillian  might — Gillian  would  do  as  she  wished,  and 
she  was  clever.  Attractive,  in  her  way,  and  no  one 
could  say  that  twenty-six  was  very  old.  Very  often 
boys —  And  the  beginning  of  it  would  have  been 
that  he,  the  priest,  had  named  her  and  talked  of  her. 
Grief  and  jealousy  went  through  him,  and  in  bitterer 
flow  because  of  Alec's  defiant  declaration  at  parting. 
"My  sin  will  make  his  sin,"  he  thought.  "God  for- 
bids me  to  win  him  to  grace:  He  turns  me  to  his 
hurt  for  my  punishment. "  ' '  The  Life  will  lose  him : 
I  shall  lose  him." — "Even  here  Thy  hand  shall  lead 
me,  and  Thy  right  hand  shall  hold  me, ' '  he  murmured, 
in  an  agonized  effort  of  faith. 


CHAPTER  V 

ALEC  left  the  priest's  house  with  an  eager 
swing.  He  felt  free.  "Just  fancy  being 
always  in  black  clothes,"  he  thought,  "and 
doing  the  same  sort  of  things  all  your  life.  I  suppose 
it's  all  right  for  him,  though."  What  an  extraor- 
dinary thing  that  the  old  chap  should  have  gone  on  the 
racket  like  that.  He  hadn't  been  afraid  of  Alec's 
splitting  on  him  about  it ;  that  was  decent  of  him. 

A  little  way  along  the  road  he  passed  a  young 
woman  who  had  been  in  service  with  the  Glaives  just 
before  her  recent  marriage.  "Good  arternoon,  Mr. 
Alec, ' '  she  said,  and  smiled,  with  a  look  of  that  under- 
standing, rather  secretive  admiration  that  young  mar- 
ried women  have  for  an  attractive  man.  She  noticed 
how  well  Alec's  Panama  hat  suited  him,  with  its 
heightening  of  the  agreeable  freshness  of  his  com- 
plexion. 

' '  Oh,  Elsie,  how  are  you  ? ' '  The  boy  was  conscious 
of  her  look,  conscious  of  it  as  more  guarded  and  yet 
bolder  than  the  look  he  would  have  had  from  a  maid. 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

He  wanted  to  talk  to  her,  he  felt  the  piquancy  of 
her  being  so  lately  married.  She  was  different,  a 
little;  he  did  not  know  how. — "Oh,  yes,  I  see — " 
He  had  not  heard  her  answer,  it  suddenly  embarrassed 
him,  being  with  her,  the  two  of  them  together  in  the 

75 


76  BRUTE  GODS 

open  road.  He  smiled  rather  awkwardly,  raised  his 
hand  and  passed  on,  sorry  to  leave  her. 

"But  I  want  Frippie,"  he  thought.  "She's  the 
girl  for  me ! "  He  must  find  her  now.  Where  would 
she  be?  Somewhere  near  her  cottage,  probably — on 
his  way  home.  Suppose  she  wasn  't  about  ?  He  might 
turn  back  and  catch  up  with  Elsie:  he  didn't  like 
doing  that,  but  still —  After  all,  Elsie  knew  about 
him  and  Frippie,  he  'd  been  afraid  she  might  say  some- 
thing, but  she  hadn't,  she  was  a  good  sort  of  girl — 
not  one  of  the  spiteful  sort  who  sneaked  and  made 
trouble.  He  turned  and  caught  up  with  her. 

"I  say — you  might  tell  me,  Elsie.  Is  Frippie 
Clark  up  at  the  cottage,  do  you  know?" 

"I  don't  know  narthin'  about  her,  nor  don't  want!" 

' '  Why — what  do  you  mean,  Elsie  ? ' '  Alec  was  sur- 
prised by  the  stubborn  vindictiveness  of  the  girl's 
tone. 

"Oh,  narthin'."  Elsie  modified  her  expression 
more  becomingly,  recovering  her  sense  of  the  boy's 
presence.  "She's  gaddin'  round  somewhere.  What 
her  pore  father  don 't  hev  to  put  up  with  from  her ! ' ' 

"She  wouldn't  be  at  the  cottage,  then?" 

"Yu  don'  want  narthin'  to  du  with  her,  Mr. 
Alec—" 

' '  Oh,  I  only  happened  to  want  to  see  her  for  a  mo- 
ment— " 

"She's  gone  ridin'  that  there  owd  bisticle  what 
young  Tom  Stevens  give  her.  She 's  gone  to  Malstowe 
— makin'  a  sight  of  herself!" 

"I  don't  see  why  it's  making  a  sight  of  herself 


CONFUSIONS  77 

to  ride  a  bicycle  into  Malstowe."  Alec  continued  to 
be  puzzled  by  Elsie's  antagonism. 

The  young  woman  looked  up  at  him  with  a  know- 
ing furtiveness.  He  had  the  impression  that  her 
stubbornness  and  resentment  covered  something  pleas- 
ing to  her,  something  protective.  "Well,  I'd  best  be 
gettin'  along,  Mr.  Alec,"  she  said,  as  he  stood  silent, 
without  giving  her  any  sort  of  sex-glance. 

Alec  walked  away,  intent  on  cutting  across  the  road 
to  Malstowe  at  the  next  turning.  What  a  good  thing 
he  had  met  Elsie!  Elsie's  disparagement  and  re- 
luctance aided  the  priest's  wine  in  spurring  his  wish 
for  Frippie.  Girls  were  funny  about  girls. — The 
road  was  dusty,  he  would  have  liked  a  lemon-squash. 
He  wondered  if  he  would  have  been  more  or  less 
thirsty  if  he  had  had  more  to  drink.  He  hadn't 
had  enough:  he  could  have  wished  more  courage  yet 
for  the  meeting  with  Frippie.  Why  was  it  that,  for 
all  her  release  of  him  from  his  natural  shyness,  he 
never  had  been  able  to  come  really  freely  to  her? 
Why,  after  leaving  her,  had  he  always  felt  a  fool? 
It  hadn't  been  her  fault,  it  had  been  his :  some  damned 
thing  or  other,  inside  him,  had  always  kept  him  back. 
When  he  was  alone,  he  thought  of  all  sorts  of  things 
he  could  have  done,  and  would  do:  yet  when  he  was 
with  her,  it  seemed  quite  different,  he  was  held  off. 
Silly  fool  he  was — rotten  silly  fool — there  was  no 
reason — other  chaps  would  have  had  a  really  good 
time.  Not  having  seen  her  for  so  long  would  make 
it  harder  now,  of  course.  If  only  he  could  feel  as  he  'd 
felt  just  after  lunch!  Everything  seemed  so  easy 


78  BRUTE  GODS 

then.  By  the  time  he  met  Frippie — if  he  did  meet  her 
— he  supposed  he'd  be  just  the  same  as  ever.  But  he 
wouldn't!  He'd  force  himself  against  that,  now. 
And  his  father  wanted  him  to  be  careful;  well,  he'd 
show  him,  he'd  score  off  him  in  that  way  too.  If  he 
got  to  know,  all  the  better. 

His  father  was  somehow  all  twisted  up  with  this, 
he  always  had  been.  There  were  vivid  memories 
from  years  ago:  one  memory  in  particular — the  first 
— of  a  little  girl  called  Kathleen  who  had  torn  her 
dress  in  sliding  down  the  bannisters.  She  would  have 
fallen  and  hurt  herself,  only  Alec  had  caught  her; 
and  when  she  was  in  his  arms,  laughing  and  flushed, 
and  with  her  torn  dress,  he  wanted  to  keep  her  there. 
He  gave  her  a  kiss,  not  meaning  to.  Then  his  father 
came,  he  looked  in  a  funny  way,  said  angrily: 
"Kathleen,  how  did  your  dress  get  torn?"  and  told 
Alec  to  go  to  his  room,  where  he  kept  him  shut 
up  as  a  punishment.  "We  must  nip  this  kind  of 
thing  in  the  bud,"  he  had  said.  The  boy  had  asked 
him:  "Why  do  you  shut  me  up  in  the  room  because 
Kathleen  tore  her  dress?"  The  garment  became 
hugely  important  and  mysterious,  he  had  thought 
about  it  perpetually.  "I  must  punish  you  for  your 
sake,  because  I  love  you, ' '  his  father  had  told  him,  and 
Alec  had  been  in  utter  amazement  at  the  lie. 

After  that,  the  enmity  of  his  father  to  him  in  this 
special  relation  became  established.  Once,  driven  by 
the  baffling  growth  in  strength,  by  the  more  and  more 
disturbing  determination  and  constancy  of  those  on- 
comings so  inexplicable  and  uninvited — once  he  had 


CONFUSIONS  79 

begun  to  tell  his  father,  to  ask  him:  but  the  pounc- 
ing look  in  that  tawny  eye  had  put  him  forthwith 
into  an  unshakeable  silent  sullenness,  a  sullenness  and 
silence  which  had  held  well.  He  was  the  more  puz- 
zled and  troubled,  the  more  resentful  of  his  father. 
"Was  it  wrong — and  why?  And  how  unfair  if  it 
was ! ' '  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  pathetic. 
Then  there  had  been  a  time — what  a  little  brute 
he  must  have  been,  he  reflected — when  he  used  to 
beat  trees  and  things  with  sticks,  and  imagine  they 
were  people. — It  was  all  the  same  sort  of  thing  as 
before,  only  in  a  different  way,  rather.  That  Amer- 
ican book  with  descriptions  of  negroes  and  negresses 
being  whipped — he  had  enjoyed  those  descriptions. 
Everything  else  used  to  seem  dull.  .  .  .  Then  the 
Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs,  in  his  father's  study:  how 
exciting  that  had  been,  much  more  exciting  than  the 
books  he  was  forbidden  to  read.  He  had  told  Father 
Collett,  thinking  that  it  must  mean  some  dreadful 
unmatched  wickedness  in  him ;  he  had  been  apprehen- 
sive and  thrilled.  But  the  priest  had  said  that  it 
was  all  perfectly  natural  and  perfectly  usual,  but  that 
things  that  were  natural  and  usual  were  often  wrong ; 
if  he  thought  of  making  people  happy  instead  of  mak- 
ing them  suffer,  he  would  enjoy  it  just  as  much 
and  be  a  better  boy.  Alec  was  half  convinced  then 
that  he  was  like  every  one  else,  but  he  could  not  quite 
bring  himself  to  believe  that  every  one  could  feel  so 
passionately  wicked.  Still,  Father  Collett  had  dulled 
the  edges  of  his  indulgence:  even  the  penance  for 
sin  that  he  had  set  himself — getting  out  of  his  warm 


80  BRUTE  GODS 

bed  in  the  cold  and  kneeling  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  in  his  nightgown  while  he  said  the  Creed  slowly 
— even  this  seemed  to  have  less  distinguished  a  point. 
A  little  later  the  powers  of  life  rose  up  against  him 
more  formidably  caparisoned — strong  thrusting 
beasts,  with  colours  of  bright-gold  frenzy  and  dull- 
red  shame.  He  had  said  nothing  then  to  Father 
Collett — and,  by  Jove,  he  was  glad  of  that  now. 
Now,  of  course,  he  understood,  just  as  most  people 
did.  Mervyn  wasn't  worried,  why  should  he  be? 
It  didn't  really  matter  much,  most  chaps  knew  that: 
but  all  the  same  it  didn't  seem  fair  that  he  should 
have  had  to  have  that  sort  of  a  time  of  it  when  he 
was  such  a  kid.  If  that  was  Nature  she  was  an  old — 
She  was  as  bad  as  his  father,  because  his  father  had 
been  unfair  and  cruel  to  him  in  the  same  kind  of 
way  when  he  was  too  young  to  look  out  for  himself. 
He  would  tackle  this  thing  and  his  father — he'd 
tackle  them  both  in  the  same  way,  he'd  get  even  by 
defying  and  revenging  and  not  caring  a  damn.  Yes, 
he'd  make  the  very  most  of  his  hating  his  father, 
and  the  very  most  of  these  wishes  that  his  father  had 
baulked  and  messed  up  for  him. — The  boy's  decision 
was  in  no  small  degree  self -protective,  self -preserva- 
tive: he  needed  emotions  and  objectives  to  stiffen 
his  green  growth,  and  he  made  passionately  his  own 
those  that  chance  brought  to  his  grasp. 

There  was  only  one  road  by  which  Frippie  could 
come  back  on  her  bicycle  from  Malstowe.  Alec,  reach- 
ing it,  looked  eagerly  along  in  both  directions.  Of 
course  he  would  miss  her!  If  you  were  too  keen  on 


CONFUSIONS  81 

anything  you  never  got  it;  you  got  the  best  things 
when  you  were  quit  ecasual  abou  tthem,  not  execting 
particularly,  not  minding  much.  .  .  .  What  should 
he  say  to  her  when  they  met,  how  should  he  begin? 
Would  she  get  off  her  bicycle?  At  once?  Perhaps 
she  wouldn't  quite  like — it  wouldn't  look  well.  Still, 
she  would  manage  that  all  right.  Girls  always  man- 
aged to  do  things  without  doing  them,  in  a  sort  of 
way.  Would  she  get  off  her  bicycle,  though?  The 
bicycle  was  a  nuisance ;  it  would  have  to  be  left  some- 
where— or  wheeled  along  the  lane  and  put  against  the 
hedge.  That  would  be  better.  He  could  leave  all 
that  to  her,  what  was  the  good  of  fussing?  Alec 
was  vexed  by  his  agitation,  it  was  ridiculous  that  his 
heart  should  be  beating  so  fast.  He  was  by  the  lane 
he  had  had  in  mind:  if  she  would  only  come  now! 
It  would  be  awkward  meeting  her  further  down  the 
road,  with  nowhere  to  go.  Why  not  stay  where  he 
was,  then?  He  sat  on  the  stile  and  lighted  a  cigar- 
ette. No  one  seemed  to  be  about.  This  waiting  was 
the  devil,  it  would  make  it  much  harder  when  she  did 
come — if  she  did.  When  they  had  last  met,  she  had 
kept  him  waiting.  Mervyn  said  the  reason  girls  did 
that  was  that  it  was  a  sort  of  score  off  you,  it  gave 
them  an  advantage  and  bucked  them  up.  Alec 
wished  again  that  it  hadn't  been  so  long  since  he  had 
seen  Frippie.  The  last  time  was  when  he  had  got  up 
at  half -past  five,  and  walked  to  the  East  Fields  where 
there  were  trees :  he  had  met  her  there.  Mervyn  had 
told  him  he  was  a  fool,  because  the  girl  would  know 
he  must  be  awfully  keen  on  her  to  get  up  and  go  out 


82  BRUTE  GODS 

at  that  idiotic  hour;  and  if  a  girl  knew  you  were  too 
keen  on  her  she  never  liked  you  so  much,  and  she  was 
never  such  good  sport.  ' '  But  of  course  with  a  girl  like 
her  I  don't  suppose  it  matters.  I  wouldn't  walk 
across  the  road  for  her!"  "Well,  he  didn't  care  what 
Mervyn  thought.  Of  course  Mervyn  had  to  be  dif- 
ferent after  getting  engaged  and  it  would  be  worse 
when  he  was  married. 

If  they  could  have  met  in  Blackberry  Lane,  nearer 
Malstowe,  that  would  have  been  ever  so  much  better. 
Blackberry  Lane  had  a  deep  poppy-field  on  the  other 
side  of  one  of  its  hedges.  The  Vicar  of  Malstowe  had 
once  preached  a  whole  sermon  about  Blackberry  Lane. 
It  was  odd,  how  much  interested  every  one  seemed  to 
be  in  these  things.  Except  Wilfred  Vail:  he  only 
laughed,  and  then  began  talking  of  something  else. 
Alec  thought  for  a  moment  of  sending  Frippie  to  the 
deuce  and  going  to  see  Wilfred  instead.  Then  he  and 
Wilfred  would  have  one  of  their  drifting  afternoons 
of  easy  talk  and  easy  companionship.  Perhaps  he'd 
find  him  writing  one  of  his  articles  for  a  Motor  paper, 
and  they  would  smoke  Russian  cigarettes  and  drink 
tea  with  a  spoonful  or  two  of  whiskey  in  it.  Wil- 
fred's mother,  at  tea,  would  tell  stories  of  Edward 
FitzGerald  and  his  brother.  Would  whiskey  go  well 
after  brandy? — No  two  people  could  be  more  utterly 
different  that  Wilfred  Vail  and  Father  Collett.  Wil- 
fred had  said  once  that  if  he  were  dying,  the  smell 
of  petrol  would  revive  him.  Yes,  they  would  potter 
about  the  old  stable,  now  used  as  a  garage;  Wilfred 
would  tinker  with  his  "baby"  car,  or  with  the  other, 


CONFUSIONS  83 

the  large  one:  or  he  would  put  it  off  till  tomorrow. 
There  was  very  rarely  anything  in  Wilfred's  life  that 
he  could  not  put  off  till  tomorrow.  Alec,  with  his 
urgent  and  uncertain  energy,  dimly  envied  his  friend. 

He  got  off  the  stile.  He  would  go  to  Wilfred's. 
He  realized  the  much  more  level  and  peaceful  time 
he  would  have  there,  with  none  of  this  wondering 
what  he  would  do  and  say,  none  of  this  looming 
awkwardness  and  embarrassment  and  disappointment. 
He  reacted  violently  for  a  moment  under  the  stress 
of  his  waiting.  It  wasn't  worth  it!  He  wanted  his 
friend,  wanted  to  see  him  in  those  dirty  grease- 
stained  overalls  of  his.  Wilfred's  image  was  clear: 
the  large  bluish  eyes,  proclaiming  their  physical  weak- 
ness and  their  benevolent  intelligence  through  the 
round  large  glasses  of  those  uncompromisingly  service- 
able steel-rimmed  spectacles  to  which  he  had  lately 
taken:  the  bearded  sallow  narrow  face,  the  fleshy 
nose  with  its  wide  nostrils,  the  fleshy  but  close-drawn 
and  positively-willed  mouth.  .  .  .  Wilfred  in  his 
garage,  working  and  gradually  beginning  to  sweat — 
growing  rather  paler.  Funny  of  him  to  wear  a  beard 
when  he  was  only  about  twenty-five.  Just  because 
it  had  grown  when  he  had  scarlet  fever.  He  said  it 
was  less  trouble  to  keep  it  on.  Funny  chap  he  was, 
in  some  ways.  Mervyn  thought  him  an  ass,  but  he 
wasn't,  really,  at  all.  Mervyn  didn't  know.  .  .  . 
Alec  looked  up  the  lane.  Not  such  a  good  lane  as 
the  one  nearer  Malstowe,  .no,  not  nearly  such  a  good 
lane  as  the  lane  of  the  sermon.  He  pondered. 

Why  couldn't  he  see  Frippie's  face  in  his  mind  as 


84  BRUTE  GODS 

clearly  as  Wilfred's?  It  was  absurd,  but  now  he  came 
to  think  of  it,  he  could  hardly  tell  what  she  looked 
like.  What  was  the  colour  of  her  eyes?  He  knew 
how  she  would  make  him  feel,  though:  if  he  kissed 
her,  he  seemed  in  some  queer  way  to  lose  her.  She 
came  too  close,  then;  everything  came  too  close,  it 
was  tantalizing  to  think  how  it  was.  He  never  could 
realize  kissing  her  or  having  her  in  his  arms,  couldn  't 
believe  in  it,  somehow,  it  wasn't  at  all  like  his  idea  of 
it  when  he  wasn't  with  her.  There  was  so  much  more 
in  what  he  imagined,  his  mind  was  so  much  freer  then. 
— How  irritating  all  this  was!  But  only  because  he 
had  been  a  silly  fool.  He  wouldn't  be  like  that  any 
more,  he  promised  himself,  uncertainly. 

After  all,  Parham  Lodge  was  too  far,  he  couldn't 
get  there  by  tea,  he'd  arrive  unexpectedly.  The 
Vails  didn  't  like  people  ' '  dropping  in, ' '  not  even  their 
intimate  friends. — He'd  be  late  for  tea  at  home,  now. 
How  flat  it  would  be  if  he  went  back  home.  He 
might  start  walking  home  by  the  Malstowe  road,  away 
from  Malstowe:  a  roundabout  way,  but  he'd  be  going 
home  then,  and  Frippie  might  overtake  him. 

He  started  off,  ruffled  and  thwarted  and  divided, 
much  annoyed  with  himself  for  the  state  he  was  in. 
Reaching  a  point  where  the  road  branched,  he  hesi- 
tated. Should  he  leave  the  road  and  cut  across  by 
the  shorter  way?  He  saw  a  girl  walking  slowly — no 
sign  of  a  bicycle  anywhere.  Who  was  the  girl? 
Why,  it  was  Frippie,  of  course  it  was :  on  foot,  why 
was  she  on  foot,  when  he  had  been  thinking  of  her  on 
a  bicycle  all  this  time?  Alec  was  bewildered  by  this 


CONFUSIONS  85 

adjustment  so  suddenly  forced  on  him.  He  hurried 
his  pace.  Further  on,  the  road  broadened  away  from 
the  protective  hedges,  from  the  screened  lane,  he  must 
reach  her  before  she  got  too  far. 

He  called  to  her  breathlessly  when  he  was  near 
enough,  and  the  girl  stopped  and  turned,  showing 
him  a  face  that  was  quite  unsurprised. 

"What's  happened?"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean,  what's  happened?"  She 
looked  defensive  and  resentful. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  on  a  bicycle." 

"Oh,  I  got  sick  of  the  old  thing.  I  left  it  behind 
at  Stevens 's." 

She  spoke  with  hardly  more  than  a  trace  of  the 
Suffolk  accent.  Vail  had  told  Alec  that  the  "gay 
ones"  among  the  country  girls  were  always  the  first  to 
lose  their  provincialisms.  Besides,  Frippie  had  been 
in  service  in  Colchester  when  she  was  two  or  three 
years  younger. 

"How  did  you  know  I  went  in  on  a  bicycle?" 
she  asked  suspiciously. 

She  didn't  seem  glad  to  see  him,  Alec  reflected: 
why  did  she  waste  time  over  a  question  like  that,  as 
if  it  mattered  how  he  knew?  He  stood  looking  at 
her,  resolved  that  he  would  remember  her  face  this 
time.  Her  eyes  were  certainly  more  green  than  any- 
thing else — a  sort  of  pale  green:  they  used  to  be 
friendly,  though,  they  used  to  have  a  sort  of  yielding 
look  that  he  couldn't  describe  and  couldn't  properly 
remember.  She  was  always  paler  than  the  other 
girls.  Her  mouth — 


86  BRUTE  GODS 

"Oh,  what  are  you  gapin'  at  me  for,  like  that? 
What's  wrong  with  me?"  she  asked,  with  the  same 
defiant  suspicion. 

"Come  let's  sit  down  for  a  bit."  Alec  looked 
away  from  her  jerkily.  "I  haven't  seen  you  for  a 
— for  a — for  ever  such  a  long  time." 

"We  can't  go  sittin'  here." 

"Why  not,  why  can't  we?"  Alec  caught  himself 
up.  He  remembered  that  he  had  decided  not  to  be 
too  eager. 

"There's  the  men  over  in  that  field."  She  looked 
down,  and  half  smiled :  for  a  moment  she  dropped  her 
pettish  air,  and  seemed  promisingly  sly. 

Alec's  heart  beat.  "They  can't  see  us  if  we  sit 
down, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Or  why  don 't  we  go  through  into 
the  lane?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  want."  She  raised  her  irregular 
light  eyebrows,  and  gave  him  a  familiar  quick  half- 
puzzled  glance.  "We'll  be  seen,  standin'  an'  talkin' 
like  this — an'  I  don't  want  no  bein'  silly  an'  that, 
not  now  I  don't,  what's  the  good?  I  should  think  you 
wouldn't  neither,  bein'  as — " 

"Don't  let's  stand,  then." 

He  looked  at  her  again,  as  she  stood  making  un- 
certain little  semicircles  with  her  toe  in  the  loosening 
earth.  She  was  much  more  like  herself  now.  Alec 
recognized  that  look  she  had  of  being  a  temporary 
and  accidental  occurrence — something  that  you  could 
not  count  on  and  that  was  always  on  the  point  of 
slipping  by.  She  had  the  same  haphazard  mouth, 
the  same  random  fair  hair  for  that  blunt  gay  face 


CONFUSIONS  87 

of  hers.  Not  really  pretty,  perhaps — with  such  a 
pale  skin — but  oh,  Lord!  he  must  touch  her.  He 
thought  of  what  Father  Collett  had  told  him,  he  took 
her  hand  and  pulled  her  down  with  him  on  the  grass 
by  the  hedge. 

"Don't  you!  Pullin'  me  about  like  that — shame- 
ful! Spoilin' my  dress.  An' it's  so  hot!" 

She  struggled,  pouting  like  an  aggrieved  child,  vexed 
by  the  boy's  awkwardly  directed  impulse.  His 
being  so  awkward  and  untaught  seemed  to  belittle 
her.  "He's  a  fair  baby!"  she  thought.  Alec  put 
his  arms  under  hers,  he  pressed  her  to  him  roughly 
and  tightly.  She  struggled  more  violently,  in  a 
perturbed  revulsion  that  was  altogether  new  to  him. 
He  let  her  go,  he  was  startled  and  scared. 

"What  do  you  think  you're  doin'  of?  Out  in  the 
road  like  this,  you  must  be —  I've  to  get  back 
home,  I  can't  stay  here,  and  you  so  foolish!"  She 
moved  away,  but  did  not  get  up. 

"I  didn't  know — you  didn't  mind  before,"  he 
stammered. 

"Don't  you  go  touchin'  me,  I  can't  stand  that 
touchin',  touchin' — " 

She  drew  further  from  him,  with  a  jerk  of  her  body. 
Her  face  was  in  queer  nervous  puckers,  and  Alec 
noticed  how  dark  she  looked  under  her  flickering  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  growing  angry  with 
her  now  that  she  looked  less  attractive.  "You  never 
used,  you  know — you  didn't — " 

"Well,  I  don't  want.  I  ain't  feelin'  well.  I'm 
goin'  home."  She  sat  still. 


88  BRUTE  GODS 

"But  why  are  you  like  this?    What's  the  reason?" 

' '  You  fool ! ' '  she  cried  sharply.  ' '  Silly  fool,  you ! ' ' 
She  leaned  forward,  shaking,  hiding  her  face.  "I'm 
goin'  home." 

' '  All  right, ' '  Alec  replied  coldly.    ' '  Go  home  then. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  what  call  you  have  to  talk  to  me 
that  way!  After  what  she  done  up  at  yours!  You 
don't  want  to  talk  that  way,  you  don't ! ' '  Her  mouth 
sagged,  she  turned  her  back  to  him,  choking. 

Alec,  surprised  but  not  ill  pleased,  wondered  what 
to  do.  He  put  his  hand  tentatively  on  her  arm. 

"I  said  no  touchin',"  she  gulped.  She  took  his 
hand  away,  but  kept  hold  of  it,  with  her  back  still 
turned.  Alec  was  silent.  He  had  instant  pleasure 
in  those  hot  little  fingers  that  ran  with  their  nervous 
animal  life — fingers  of  such  separately  sensitive  flesh 
from  his  own  that  possessed  them.  There  was  so 
much  more  in  this  than  in  those  blundering  kisses — 
Would  Father  Collett  think  this  wrong?  What  was 
it  he  had  said  ?  That  it  was  using  up  something  that 
was  meant  to  go  to  making  you  more  spiritual — 
Alec  tried,  for  piquancy,  to  recall  the  priest's  argu- 
ments. 

"Who  will  you  go  with  when  I —  Oh,  I  s'pose 
you'll  go  with  that  there  Miss  Burke." 

"When  you  what?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  trouble  about  me.  No  one  wants 
to  trouble  about  me."  Her  fingers  twitched  sharply. 
"That  Miss  Burke  likes  you,  you  know  she  do." 

"What,  Doreen  Burke!  I  don't  believe  it.  Why 
do  you  think — " 


CONFUSIONS  89 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  anything!"  She  pulled  her 
hand  away.  "She  do,  though,"  she  added  with  con- 
viction. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  she  does!" 

"No,  you  don't  care  about  any  one,  I  know  you 
don't!" 

"Of  course  I  care  about  you,  Frippie,  I — " 

The  remark  sounded  very  stilted,  it  sounded  silly. 
"What  a  fool  I  am!"  he  thought.  He  sought  her 
hand,  but  she  held  it  tightly  clasped  with  her  other 
one  on  her  lap. 

"I  want  some  one  to  care  about  me,  proper  carin', 
not  just  makin'  love  and  all  that  what's  soon  over 
an'  done  with — only  it  ain't  over,  neither,  not  one 
way,  it  ain't!"  She  had  half -turned  to  him,  but  now 
she  turned  away  again. 

"Don't  cry.  Why  should  you ?  You 've  nothing  to 
cry  about." 

"Oh,  that's  all  you  know.  That's  just  like  you.  I 
wish  I  was  a  man,"  she  declared  viciously.  "I'd 
show  them — all  them  girls,  wouldn't  I?  Sneaky 
sniffin'  little  beasts.  I  know  what  I'd  do,  and  I'd 
do  it  proper!  You  don't  know  how,  you  don't!  I 
wish  I  was  you.  I'd  get  that  Miss  Burke  and  I'd 
settle  her,  so  she  wouldn't  go  doin'  no  more  of  her 
preachin ' !  Told  me  Jesus  loved  me.  What  call  had 
she,  goin'  sayin'  things  like  that?  'Wish  I  was  you. 
I'd  give  her  Jesus!" 

"Why  was  Miss  Burke  talking  to  you?  I  don't 
see  why  she  should  interfere.  It's  no  business  of  hers 
even  if  you  aren't  one  of  the  Sunday  School  sort — " 


90  BRUTE  GODS 

"Oh,  an'  who  told  you  I  wasn't?"  She  turned 
and  looked  at  him  closely.  "Was  that  why  you 
wouldn't  take  no  notice  of  me  when  you  was  sittin'  on. 
that  stile?" 

"What!  you  don't  mean  to  say  you — " 

"Don't  tell  me!  You  must  have  seen.  I  went 
right  by  you — you  couldn't  help — " 

"I  swear  I  didn't  see  you.  It's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary thing,  Frippie — "  He  was  vehement.  "I 
can't  think  how  it  could  have  happened,  but  I  swear 
it  did.  I  was  there  waiting  for  you,  looking  out. 
But  I  thought  you'd  be  on  a  bicycle,  that  must  have 
been  why.  I  was  looking  out  for  a  bicycle,  you  see — " 

"There's  lots  of  things  you'll  miss,  if  that's  the 
way  you  go  on!" 

It  was  impossible  not  to  believe  him.  Frippie 
looked  at  him  half-humorously,  half -tenderly :  he 
was  so  much  put  about,  and  he  had  been  there  wait- 
ing for  her,  silly  kid!  The  girl  of  eighteen  felt 
very  much  older  than  he,  felt  as  if  she  knew  so  much 
more.  "What's  the  good  of  boys?"  she  thought. 
She  kissed  him  and  then  escaped  him  with  equal  sud- 
denness. 

"Frippie!  Why  do  you  do  like  that?"  He  tried 
to  take  her.  "You  keep  on  teasing,  it's  awful,  it  isn't 
any  fun  for  me,  I  can  tell  you  it  isn't!" 

"Oh,  an'  you  keep  on  askin'  why — why — why!  I 
told  you  I  didn't  like  touchin'.  It  makes  me  feel  all 
— oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  just  as  good  as  them,  too," 
she  went  on — irrelevantly,  so  it  seemed  to  Alec. 

He  stared  moodily.    That  letting  her  go  past  him 


CONFUSIONS  91 

on  the  road.  How  Mervyn  would  laugh,  if  he  knew ! 
Well.  He  wouldn  't  let  anything  go  by  him  again,  not 
anything.  Surely  if  he  made  up  his  mind — 

"Do  you  care  s'posin'  they  see  us  together?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

"I  thought  you  did.    You  said — " 

"I  don't  mind,  not  now.  Oh,  what's  it  matter? 
You  only  live  once,  and  if  you're  always  thinkin', 
thinkin',  and  lookin'  up  an'  lookin'  down,  you  might 
as  well  be  dead!"  She  put  her  arms  round  him. 
"Would  you  mind  if  they  saw  us  doin'  like  that?" 

Alec  kissed  her,  but  not  so  violently,  not  so  much 
losing  himself  or  her  as  before,  and  he  let  her  go 
before  she  struggled. 

"I  can't."  There  was  a  baffling  expectancy  in  her 
eyes,  and  Alec  formulated  the  feeling  that  he  had 
had  all  the  while,  that  she  looked  older  in  some  way. 
"It's  no  use,  it  doesn't  go  right,  not  now. — I  say,  dear, 
you're  friends  with  Mr.  Vail,  couldn't  you  get  him  to 
give  you  some  of  them  nice  grapes  out  of  his  glass 
house,  and  you  give  'em  to  me.  You  could,  couldn't 
you?" 

She  was  eager,  much  in  earnest,  oddly  tenacious. 
Catching  Alec 's  look  of  reluctance,  she  at  once  took  his 
hand. 

"You  could  get  them  tomorrow,  then  we'd  meet 
next  day — early — like  we  did  before,  in  the  East 
Fields.  I  have  been  wantin'  a  taste  of  them  grapes ! " 
Her  voice  curled  longingly. 

"Look  here — I'll  buy  you  some,  Frippie.  I'll  buy 
them  tomorrow — some  just  as  good." 


92  BRUTE  GODS 

"No,  they  ain't!  I  want  Mr.  Vail's.  I  seen  them 
when  I  was  to  the  Lodge  with  Mrs.  Whitling. 
They're  lovely,  lovely  an'  black,  an'  ever  so  big!  I 
don't  want  none  out  of  a  shop.  I  want  them  picked 
straight  out — I  want  you  to  pick  'em  for  me,  Alec 
dear.  I  thought  you  was  fond  of  me."  She  gave 
his  hand  a  feverish  squeeze. 

"All  right.     I  will.     Give  us  a  kiss!" 

He  would  realize  her  kisses  now,  he  thought,  he 
would  know  how,  he  was  ready :  it  had  been  too  sud- 
den before,  he  hadn't  waited  enough. 

"You  will,  really  and  truly — " 

Facing  him,  she  put  her  two  hands  against  his 
chest,  keeping  him  back.  Her  blunt  face — her  jolly 
libertine  dissembling  face — again  recaptured  some- 
thing of  its  gaiety,  but  in  a  strained  uneasy  excite- 
ment that  overlay  her  familiar  look. 

"Say  you  want  'em  to  take  home.  Say  they're 
for  Mrs.  Glaive — oh,  I  forgot !  Fancy  me  sayin '  that ! 
— I  'm  awful  sorry  about  her,  dear,  but  then  she  have 
money,  haven't  she,  she  won't  feel  nothin'  and  she've 
got  some  one  to  see  to  her.  'S  rare  hard  for  you  an' 
all,  though,  ain't  it?" 

"Oh,  /  don't  mind!" 

"But  you'll  get  them  grapes!" 

The  great  Glaive  calamity  did  not  divert  Frippie 
for  more  than  a  moment.  Her  pale  skin,  so  unlike  his 
own,  lightly  and  seducingly  flushed,  gave  new  stim- 
ulus to  the  boy.  He  took  her  arms,  with  one  hand  of 
his  at  the  curve  of  the  elbow.  "You  promise?"  she 
urged. 


CONFUSIONS  93 

"Oh,  of  course  I  promise.  Let's  have  a  kiss — 
properly. ' ' 

"And  you  wouldn't  mind  bein'  seen  with  me,  would 
you?" 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't!" 

She  leaned  a  little  to  him,  still  keeping  him  back. 
Then:  "There's  that  Mr.  Perry  comin'!"  she  cried 
low.  With  what  seemed  a  single  movement,  capri- 
cious, skilful,  instant,  she  had  slipped  away  through 
the  hedge. 


H 


CHAPTER  VI 

*  *  ~f    "f  ULLOA,    Glaive,   where   did  you   spring 
from?" 

"Hulloa."     "Damn  that  ass  Perry," 
thought  Alec. 

"Been  for  a  run  or  something?  Pretty  hot,  isn't 
it?"  Mr.  Herbert  Perry,  the  People's  Party  man, 
advanced,  lithe  and  hale,  brown  and  young.  He  was 
carrying  a  case  of  golf-clubs.  "I  say."  Reaching 
Alec,  he  stopped.  ' '  Do  you  know  what 's  happened  ? ' ' 

"Well,  what?" 

Alec  coloured  furiously,  connecting  the  question 
with  his  stepmother's  flight.  His  intense  annoyance 
at  the  man's  untimely  appearance  lapsed  for  the 
moment. 

"Yetminster's  trying  to  stop  the  men  going  over  his 
land  to  the  Works!" 

"Oh,  that  right-of-way  business."  Alec's  tone  was 
relieved  and  indifferent. 

' '  You  don 't  realize — why,  it 's  madness.  He  doesn  't 
realize — " 

Alec,  as  Perry  went  on  talking,  was  vividly  directed 
to  the  various  masculine  symptoms  of  the  intruder: 
the  facts  that  rudely  projected  were  the  swing  of  his 
arms  and  legs,  the  roughness  and  thickness  of  his 
clothes,  the  smell  of  his  pipe-tobacco,  the  few  close- 
cropped  inches  of  hair  under  his  cap,  the  razored 

94 


CONFUSIONS  95 

skin  of  his  face,  the  look  of  his  neck  and  chin,  nothing 
like  Frippie's. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  talk  to  you  in  confidence, 
Glaive,  do  you?"  Perry  began  to  curb  his  agitation. 
"We're  walking  the  same  way,  aren't  we?"  He 
dropped  his  voice  and  put  a  hand  on  Alec 's  arm,  try- 
ing to  make  the  boy  feel  pleasurably  important. 
"Between  ourselves,  the  men  won't  stand  it.  They've 
gone  by  that  path  to  their  work  for  the  last  fifteen 
years,  the  old  Marquis  always  let  them.  They  broke 
the  gate  this  morning."  He  paused,  in  the  manner 
of  a  public  speaker.  "They'll  break  it  again  to- 
night if  they  find  it  up  when  they  come  back.  Prob- 
ably they're  breaking  it  now.  They  won't  walk  the 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  round  twice  a  day.  I  know 
them,  Glaive.  They  won't  do  it.'* 

"It  was  just  beginning,"  ran  Alec's  thoughts. 
"If  only  that  fool  hadn't  come  along,  I  could  have — 
I  would  have!" 

"They  won't  do  it,"  Perry  repeated. 

"Well,  it's  no  business  of  mine,  is  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is.  Your  father's  bound  to  be  mixed  up 
in  it.  There's  a  whole  lot  that  could  be  done  in  an 
unofficial  way;  you  can  help.  I'm  at  a  disadvantage 
as  a  public  man.  Anything  I  might  say  to  Yet- 
minster  would  put  his  back  up  at  once.  These  Liberal 
aristocrats!  They're  worse  than  the  old-fashioned 
Tories!  Lord  Beauvais  might  have  done  this  sort  of 
thing  thirty  years  ago,  he'd  never  do  it  now.  He 
and  his  kind  know  better — know  how  far  they  can 
go,  and  where  they  have  to  stop. ' ' 


96  BRUTE  GODS 

"What  a  sell!"  Alec  tormentingly  reflected. 
"What  a  come-down."  He  had  been  so  determined, 
too.  Then  he  had  only  just  kissed  her — without  mak- 
ing anything  of  it,  really;  he'd  just  held  her  hand. 
As  if  he'd  taken  all  that  trouble  to  meet  her,  just  to 
hold  her  hand! 

"The  political  sense  of  the  possible,"  Perry  was 
saying.  "Compromise.  Why,  it's  simply  playing 
straight  into  Joe  Matcham's  hands — violence — " 

"Oh,  yes,  you  dislike  that  man,  don't  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  dislike  his  principles — or  I 
ought  to  say  I  dislike  his  poisonous  errors." 

Perry  gave  an  easy  Club-room  laugh.  He  shot  out 
a  few  strokes  at  Matcham's  political  heresies  while 
Alec  continued  to  ponder  on  the  unfruitfulness  of  his 
meeting  with  Frippie.  Why  was  it  that  there  had 
been  so  fleetingly  little  in  it?  Anything  more  had 
seemed  so  utterly  out  of  his  power.  Well,  perhaps 
even  if  Perry  hadn't  come —  He  tried  to  console 
himself. 

"But  don't  let's  talk  shop,"  the  politician  con- 
tinued. "Now  your  father's  a  shrewd  man,  he  can 
get  Yetminster  to  see  what  a  rotten  mistake  he's 
making.  Probably  ruin  his  chances  for  the  Board  of 
Agriculture.  ..." 

Perry  elaborated  this  point,  while  Alec  discussed 
with  himself  the  matter  of  his  promise  to  Frippie. 
He  couldn't  possibly  ask  Wilfred  for  the  grapes  for 
her.  It  was  the  kind  of  thing  Wilfred  would  con- 
sider quite  unpardonable;  he  knew  Wilfred  well 
enough  for  that.  It  might  mean  a  breach  of  their 


CONFUSIONS  97 

friendship,  even.  Besides,  Wilfred  would  refuse. 
There  was  his  mother  to  be  considered,  he  would  say 
they  were  her  grapes,  and  of  course  they  were.  Both 
Wilfred  and  his  mother  would  resent  more  than  a 
little  the  idea  of  their  hothouse  grapes — fruit  of  such 
careful  culture — going  to  gratify  the  whim  of  a  girl 
like  Frippie.  They  would  feel  it  as  compromising 
them  distastefully,  in  an  undignified  way — whether 
any  one  knew  of  it  or  not. 

"...  and  the  men  will  probably  strike.  How  do 
you  think  the  Casleys  and  the  Bradwells  will  like 
that?  Yetminster  will  alienate  them,  and  they're  im- 
portant. Does  he  think  they'll  put  up  with  a  strike, 
just  for  him  to  lay  out  his  private  Golf  Course  in 
peace  and  quiet?  Now,  my  dear  chap,  can't  you  put 
all  this  to  your  father?  He  doesn't  want  to  have 
bricks  thrown  at  his  head,  does  he?" 

Alec  began  to  listen.  "Will  they  throw  bricks?" 
he  thought. 

"You  don't  want  them  to  go  waylaying  you  and 
your  brother?  It's  a  question  of  mutual  interests, 
Glaive.  When  your  interests  coincide,  you  ought  to 
get  together.  Yetminster  simply  must  climb  down 
gracefully.  He  can  save  his  face  easily  enough. 
There's  a  very  ugly  spirit  in  the  men,  just  the  spirit 
Joe  Matcham  wants,  the  spirit  he  can  use — bad 
blood—" 

"What '11  happen  if  he  does  use  it?"  asked  Alec, 
listlessly  distracted  by  Matcham 's  name. 

" There  may  be  violence.  It's  serious.  They  won't 
stop  at  gate-smashing.  They'll  be  breaking  windows 


98  BRUTE  GODS 

and  burning  things  up.  Remember  most  of  these  men 
have  been  in  the  war.  They  don't  care  about  danger, 
they  won't  be  afraid.  Yetminster  doesn't  realize  how 
things  have  changed.  ..." 

Of  course,  if  Alec  did  as  Frippie  had  suggested  and 
asked  for  the  grapes  for  his  family — if  he  said  he 
wanted  them  for  his  aunt — Mrs.  Vail  would  give  them 
at  once  and  think  nothing  of  it.  But  he  couldn't  do 
that:  you  couldn't,  when  you  were  friends  with  a 
man.  Even  if  he  wasn't  found  out,  he  wouldn't  be 
able  to  feel  that  he  and  Wilfred  were  friends  any 
more.  Of  course  Frippie  couldn  't  understand. 

".  .  .  it'll  mean  the  undoing  of  all  our  work  here." 
Perry  threw  out  his  well-shaped  hand,  with  its  fingers 
curving  inwards.  "You  ask  what '11  happen.  Every- 
thing that's  unEnglish  will  happen.  The  men  will 
do  exactly  what  Matcham  wants  them  to  do.  They 
won't  vote  at  the  next  Election." 

"Then  the  Liberal  man  will  get  the  seat  instead 
of  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself."  Perry  stiff- 
ened professionally.  "The  whole  thing  is  much 
larger  than  anything  personal.  Much.  It  may  mean 
the  start  of  getting  the  whole  country  into  a  mess. 
This  is  an  important  district,  politically;  may  set  the 
ball  rolling.  If  Matcham  gets  a  hold  with  his  crazy 
'House  of  "Workers'  notions  down  here — 'Labour 
Separatism' — and  all  because  of  a  private  Golf  Course. 
The  thing's  ridiculous!  As  if  the  public  Course 
wasn't  good  enough  for  any  one!  Best  on  the  East 
Coast—" 


CONFUSIONS  99 

Alec  decided  to  buy  the  grapes,  and  lie  to  Frippie. 
He  didn't  like  doing  it,  but  after  all  she  was  a  girl, 
and  it  was  the  only  way  out.  He  became  conscious 
that  Perry  had  stopped  talking,  that  he  was  noticing 
his  distraction.  The  boy  grew  embarrassed.  Of 
course  Perry  would  think  he  was  distracted  because  of 
his  stepmother.  He  would  have  to  attend. 

' '  Do  the  people  you  want  to  vote  for  you  like  your 
going  about  golfing  ? "  he  asked,  glancing  at  the  man 's 
gentlemanly  heather-coloured  athletic-looking  suit. 

''My  work's  in  the  evenings  mostly.  I  must  keep 
fit."  Perry  answered  with  competence  and  dignity. 
"They  understand  that.  And,  between  ourselves, 
they  rather  like  us  to  live  like  gentlemen. — I  had  a 
twosome  with  Lord  Charles  Freyle  yesterday."  He 
betrayed  some  elation. 

"Then  why  don't  you  get  him  to  talk  to  his  father 
for  you?" 

"Oh,  no.  Wouldn't  do  at  all.  Couldn't  possibly 
broach  the  subject  with  him.  It's  a  matter  of  diplo- 
macy, my  dear  Glaive."  Again  he  became  confiden- 
tial. "It's  the  right  thing  for  Lord  Charles  to  be  on 
terms  with  me,  don't  you  see?  It's — er — disarming. 
And  it  suits  me  too:  it's  the  English  way,  keeps  any- 
thing personal  quite  out  of  it,  on  both  sides.  The 
House  of  Commons  way,  the  sporting  way.  We  under- 
stand one  another.  We're  enemies,  but  we're 
friends. ' ' 

' '  And  you  're  both  of  you  against  Matcham ! ' '  Alec 
began  to  see  light. 

"Any  sane  man  would  be  against  Matcham." 


100  BRUTE  GODS 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  be,  if  I  were  a  work- 
ing-man. His  ideas  are  more — well,  they're  more 
exciting  than  yours. ' ' 

"  'Exciting!'  Yes,  that's  just  it.  People  can't 
stand  settling  down  after  the  war,  they  want  excite- 
ment and  sensation.  "We're  rapidly  degenerating  into 
a  neurotic  hysterical  nation,  Glaive,  that's  the  whole 
trouble.  Matcham  is  a  man  utterly  ignorant  of 
history  and  the  very  elements  of  economics,  and  so  are 
all  the  other  men  who 're  behind  these  harebrained 
grotesqueries !  But  any  quack  nostrum  for  scrapping 
the  Constitution  will  get  a  hearing  nowadays.  This 
'  Council  of  Workmen, '  elected  by  a  separated  Labour, 
legislating  with  the  House  of  Commons  as  Second 
Chamber — manual  workers  to  vote  only  for  the 
'Council'  candidates — Labour  in  one  box  and  the 
middle  and  upper  classes  in  another !  You  only  have 
to  state  the  scheme  to  prove  its  wildcat  absurdity! 
All  the  worst  evils  of  class  separatism.  None  of  the 
right  fusion  and  fellowship.  It  would  murder  na- 
tional unity ! ' '  Perry  made  a  forensic  gesture.  ' '  I  'd 
back  commonsense  against  'excitement'  any  day,"  he 
went  on  more  calmly.  "Is  it  commonsense  to  stick 
a  knife  into  the  Mother  of  Parliaments? — Of  course 
they'll  precious  soon  try  to  get  all  the  power. — We 
want  reform,  as  we've  always  had  it,  that  is  by  the 
will  of  the  whole  nation,  through  the  representatives 
of  the  whole  nation  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Re- 
form's a  blessing  to  the  People,  revolution  damns 
them.  Look  at  Russian  experience.  We  want  a  true 
and  progressive  democracy,  not  a  division  of  the  na- 


CONFUSIONS  101 

tion  into  two  hostile  camps,  with  fruitless  warfare  and 
interminable  deadlocks. ' ' 

"Well,  if  enough  of  the  people  want  this  separate 
Council,  I  suppose  they'll  get  it."  Alec  was  reflect- 
ing on  the  uneasy  antagonism  which  he  knew  his 
father  had  for  Matcham's  Movement.  Bricks.  .  .  . 
He  felt  friendly  to  Matcham  and  wished  he  under- 
stood more. 

"The  People  will  get  what  they  want.  Of  course. 
It's  our  business  to  see  they  are  wisely  guided.  Do 
you  know  that  these  Separatist  people  won 't  have  any 
members  of  their  precious  Council  who  aren't  actually 
working-men  ?  As  if  a  man  could  fit  himself  for  legis- 
lation in  his  spare  time  of  an  evening!  What's  to 
become  of  intellect?  Can  we  do  without  intellect, 
tell  me  that!  God  knows  I'm  a  democrat — through 
and  through — but  the  People 's  Will  must  be  expressed 
by  the  real  friends  of  the  People — by  trained  men, 
by  educated  men  with  a  sense  of  history  and  economics 
— or  we  shall  all  of  us  go  down  to  chaos  and  destruc- 
tion!" 

Alec  was  silent,  meditating  in  some  comprehension 
upon  the  friendly  personal  relations  between  Mr. 
Perry  and  Lord  Charles  Freyle. 

"It  isn't  as  if  our  Party  weren't  in  earnest  about 
Eeform,"  the  young  politician  went  on.  "We're 
pledged  to  drastic  measures — tremendously  drastic. 
Why,  I've  gone  so  far  as  to  tell  the  people  here — and 
I  had  authority  for  doing  it,  too — that  hereditary 
wealth  will  have  to  go.  Gradually,  of  course — by  a 
gradual  raise  of  the  Death  Duties.  We  can't  at- 


102  BRUTE  GODS 

tempt  too  much  at  once;  that  isn't  the  English 
way — " 

Alec  looked  up  at  the  rugged  highways  of  the  sky, 
travelled  by  greenish  clouds.  He  felt  much  less  un- 
sympathetic with  Nature  now — Nature  that  was  so 
far  off  from  all  this  talk.  In  their  indifference  to 
"the  unrest  of  the  times"  Nature  and  he  were  agreed. 
Still,  if  this  affair  could  be  used  against  his  father,  to 
punish  his  father,  to  be  revenged  on  him.  .  .  . 

"Yetminster  can't  do  it,"  Perry  was  insisting. 
"He  simply  can't  do  it.  Why,  he's  as  bad  as 
Matcham — the  two  extremes!  What  we  want  is  a 
decent  working  compromise  between  the  classes,  got 
at  in  a  decent  way.  Revolution  will  never  do  any- 
thing in  England,  the  idea's  grotesque." 

Alec  did  not  answer.  The  politician  was  disap- 
pointed in  him,  he  had  expected  him  to  be  flattered  by 
this  confidential  conversation,  enough  flattered  to  let 
himself  be  used.  Yetminster  must  have  his  warning 
somehow,  and  at  once,  or  this  might  be  the  finishing 
stroke  for  the  law-abiding  party  of  Parliamentary 
democratic  reform.  It  might  even  be  the  end  of  his 
own  political  career.  Already,  things  had  been  pretty 
tricky.  Perry  was  quite  clever  enough  to  gauge  the 
dangers  of  the  East  Anglian  temperament.  These 
people  had  never  wholly  trusted  him,  these  Suffolk 
peasants  with  their  childish  suspicions,  their  obstinate 
pseudo-shrewdness.  "I  een't  all  a  duzzy  fule,"  one 
of  them  had  told  him  that  morning.  He  had  often 
been  disconcerted  by  the  way  they  had  of  listening 
to  him  without  contradiction  or  comment,  and  he 


CONFUSIONS  103 

knew  that  Matcham's  audiences  didn't  behave  like 
that.  He  hadn't  felt  so  sure  of  the  factory  workers, 
either.  Still,  he  had  been  gaining  ground.  Things 
had  been  looking  up,  and  he  had  got  on  famously  with 
the  women.  Good  looks  and  the  personal  touch — the 
right  manner.  He'd  been  especially  successful  with 
the  women  relatives  of  his  political  enemies.  That 
extension  of  the  Suffrage,  what  a  capital  thing! 
Practically  the  whole  female  vote  would  go  for  him 
— would  have  gone  for  him,  if  it  hadn  't  been  for  this 
cursed  affair.  It  must  blow  over,  it  must  be  made 
to.  Perry  thought  of  the  excellent  reports  he  had 
written  to  the  ''Chief" — giving  credit  to  himself  with 
such  subtle  indirection!  Political  expression  had 
always  come  naturally  to  him:  he  was  born  for  the 
life — born  for  a  "career" —  "Well,  if  this  young  fool 
wouldn't  help  him,  hanged  if  he  wouldn't  go  and  have 
a  talk  with  old  Glaive  himself.  He  reflected  on  the 
good  taste  he  had  shown  in  not  alluding  to  the  Glaive 
scandal. 

"You'll  put  in  a  word,  won't  you,  with  your  father? 
That's  all  I  ask."  He  broke  the  silence,  conciliatory, 
suggestive. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  The  whole 
thing  bores  me."  "Stop  them  throwing  bricks  at 
that  devil, ' '  thought  the  boy.  ' '  Not  likely ! ' '  They 
turned  a  corner. 

"Oh,  all  right.  It's  really  of  no  particular  conse- 
quence, after  all,  what  you  choose  to  do.  I  only 


104  BRUTE  GODS 

wanted  to —  Why,  what  the  deuce  is  going  on  over 
there?" 

"Where?" 

"On  the  Green.  In  front  of  the  'Parrot  and 
Punchbowl.'  It's  a  meeting.  Gad,  I  wonder  if  the 
strike's  on  already!" 

"Joe  Matcham's  speaking,"  said  Alec,  and  quick- 
ened his  step. 

"Let  him,"  Perry  observed  viciously.  Then,  as  a 
shout  came  from  the  assembled  men:  "I  shall  go 
up  to  your  place.  If  you  won 't  warn  your  father  and 
Yetminster,  I  must." 

"Why  not  come  on  and  tackle  Joe  Matcham?" 

"I  would  with  pleasure  if  I  thought  it  the  right 
move.  My  judgment  is  against  it,  at  the  present 
moment.  Do  more  harm  than  good." 

Alec  looked  at  him  contemptuously,  and  resolved 
that  he  would  never  be  like  that  about  anything. 
He  felt  oddly  thrilled  by  a  sudden  sense  of  the  virtues 
of  courage  and  truth.  Tremendously  he  wanted  to 
hear  what  Matcham  was  saying.  The  elan  of  a  fight 
flushed  his  spirit — a  fight  that  would  somehow  be 
against  his  father,  against  what  held  his  father  up 
and  gave  him  his  power  for  hurt. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTER  Perry  had  left  him,  the  boy  hurried 
on  toward  the  Green.  He  began  to  recognize 
some  of  the  men  in  Matcham's  audience — 
men  he  remembered  in  earlier  days  sitting  in  the 
"Adult  School"  with  their  shiny  clothes  and  greased 
hair.  And  there  was  the  man  whose  son  had  given 
Frippie  her  bicycle ;  Stevens,  who  kept  the  small  iron- 
monger's shop  at  Malstowe,  a  tall  spectacled  ginger- 
haired  man.  He  used  to  be  a  Radical  in  the  old 
days,  but  was  always  terribly  afraid  of  losing  the 
gentry 's  patronage.  He  was  standing  now  at  the  back 
of  the  crowd,  with  his  long  neck  craned  up  towards  the 
speaker.  He  was  the  only  tradesman,  so  far  as  Alec 
could  see.  The  lower  grades  of  the  middle  class  were 
represented  only  by  him  and  by  "the  Reverend  Car- 
rick" — the  Independent  Church  of  Christ  minister 
at  Cranton,  where  the  large  Iron  "Works  were.  There 
were  a  few  children  about,  with  that  curious  look 
of  stolid  deformity  that  country  children  often  have. 
The  crowd  was  mainly  of  the  Works  men,  none  of 
whom  Alec  knew  by  sight:  there  was  a  sprinkling 
of  agricultural  labourers.  The  editor  of  a  local  paper, 
a  stooped  gaunt  man,  very  much  the  worse  for  middle 
age,  stood  next  to  Stevens,  taking  notes.  Alec  re- 
membered hearing  that  he  had  been  recently  converted 
by  Matcham,  and  let  him  do  what  he  liked  with  his 

105 


106  BRUTE  GODS 

journal.  The  few  girls  and  women  who  were  there 
all  stood  together,  rather  uneasily,  on  the  outskirts. 

As  Alec  came  up,  there  was  a  deep  roll  of  laughter, 
that  seemed  suddenly  to  puncture  its  expanded  volume 
on  a  sharp  staccato  point.  The  Reverend  Carrick  had 
laughed  last. 

"That's  right,  Joe!"  a  man  up  at  the  front  called 
out.  "We  don'  want  narthin'  to  du  with  Parlyment 
no  more!"  Alec  recognized  Jos  Clark,  Frippie's 
father. 

"What  were  they  laughing  at?"  he  whispered 
Stevens  eagerly,  then  looked  to  the  knot  of  women  for 
Frippie,  thinking  that  she  might  be  there  before  him. 
The  idea  that  she  was  riding  a  bicycle  irrationally 
stuck.  "What  did  you  say?" 

"He  was  a-mobbin'  o'  Perry,  a-talkin'  like  he  talk," 
the  ironmonger  replied,  on  his  guard. 

Joe  Matcham  held  up  his  hand. 

"Now,  boys,  I'll  tell  you  straight  what  we  want. 
We  want  every  man  here — and  every  woman — to  give 
their  word  of  honour  as  a  worker — and  that 's  as  good 
as  the  word  of  honour  of  a  gentleman,  and  better — " 

The  men  cheered  loudly. 

"I  want  you  to  give  me,  one  and  all,  your  solemn 
pledge  that  you  won't  cast  a  vote  at  the  next  Elec- 
tion." 

"  Or  at  any  'lection,  Joe ! ' '  Clark  shouted,  his  voice 
hoarse. 

"Don't  worry  about  'lection  after  next.  If  we 
'aven't  got  something  worth  votin'  for  by  then,  we'd 
best  go  crawlin'  on  all  fours  up  t'  th'  big  'ouse, 


CONFUSIONS  107 

and  ast  'is  lordship  to  spit  on  our  'eads  to  keep  'em 
cool.  'Ands  up  them  as  promise  me  not  to  vote  next 
time!" 

Every  hand  went  up,  and  the  crowd 's  hoorays  were 
longer  and  louder.  Alec  scrutinized  Matcham's  pale 
face,  with  the  prominent  misshapen  nose,  thickened 
at  the  end,  the  clinching  lips,  the  smashing  chin,  the 
deep-driven  grey-green  eyes,  active  with  the  will  of 
the  heavy  rough-cast  bulged  forehead  that  overhung 
them.  He  was  a  stoutly  built  man  of  about  fifty,  from 
the  North-country,  but,  except  for  the  emphatic  drop- 
ping of  his  aitches,  the  accent  was  not  very  marked. 
Alec  wondered  why  he  didn't  look  triumphant,  joyous, 
with  all  that  cheering  that  he  had  made.  Instead, 
he  looked  grim  and  level  and  grave — with  a  gravity 
driven  in  as  deeply  as  his  eyes,  and,  like  his  eyes, 
lined  bitterly  round.  He  gave  no  room  to  jubilation. 
The  man  seemed  girded,  held  fast,  by  a  cold  passion 
of  tragic  energy  and  sacramental  hate.  Yet  he  had 
made  them  laugh.  The  boy  was  strongly  drawn  to 
him:  he  sought  identification  with  that  massiveness 
and  weight  that  so  shamed  the  flimsy  lightness  of  his 
own  adolescence.  If  he  could  get  such  power  as  that ! 
— He  would  get  it. 

"I  tell  you,  men,  I'm  glad — "  Matcham  raised 
his  head,  and  held  out  his  arm  with  hand  and  fingers 
taut.  "I'm  glad  this  'ere  'as  'appened  to  show  us 
your  way  of  shakin'  'ands  with  it.  There  are  some 
questions  we're  all  of  us  astin'  now,  and  we're  astin' 
them  'ard.  What's  the  good  of  the  vote?  What's 
the  good  of  Parlyment?  We  know  just  what 


108  BRUTE  GODS 

Parl'ment's  done  for  us,  and  what  we  say  is:  'Not 
enough.'  Extry  shillin'  on  the  Pensions  or  the  In- 
surance! Thank  yer  for  nothin'!  What  we  say  is: 
'Take  them  sops  an'  slops  of  yours,  and  sit  in  'em — 
take  a  bath  in  'em — anything  you  like — so  long's  you 
take  'em  away  from  us.'  Oh,  we've  got  our  Labour 
members  an'  our  Radicals  an'  our  People's  Party 
men!  'Ave  we?  An'  what  good  do  they  do  us? 
What  good  could  they  do  us  when  we  give  'em  a  salary 
that  puts  'em  in  the  class  that's  on  our  necks?  Men 
are  'uman.  You  know  what  'appens.  When  they've 
been  in  that  'Ouse  a  month  they  begin  to  rot  and 
they're  clubmen  an'  fake  gentlemen  an'  'alf-'oggers 
an'  quarter- 'oggers,  an'  'alf  of  'em  was  that  already 
when  they  tricked  the  labourin'  man  into  votin'  for 
them.  We  don't  want  no  more  writer  Socialists  and 
lawyer  Radicals,  we  want  the  real  thing  and  no  fake. 
Don 't  we  know  what  we  want,  men  ?  Don 't  we  know 
'ow  to  get  it?  Do  we  think  we'll  get  it  by  goin'  on 
with  bein'  tricked  by  these  'ere  Mr.  Perrys,  and  scat- 
terin'  the  few  good  men  we  do  'ave  through  a  'Ouse 
full  of  lawyers  an'  wire-pullers  an'  place- 'unters  so 
that  they  don't  count?  We've  seen  just  'ow  much  we 
got  by  votin',  it's  time  now  to  see  'ow  much  we  can 
get  by  chuckin '  the  vote  to  'ell ! ' ' 

The  last  words  tore  Matcham's  worn  voice  along 
a  ragged  edge.  He  stood  with  unchanging  eyes  upon 
the  faces  of  the  crowd.  It  seemed  to  Alec  that  he 
looked  directly  and  understandingly  at  him.  The 
boy  was  much  moved.  The  men  were  shuffling  and 
shouting,  the  women  began  to  chatter. 


CONFUSIONS  109 

' '  We  know  what  we  want  now ! ' '  Matcham  shouted, 
then  waited  a  moment,  with  hand  raised.  "We 
know  what.  An'  that's  a  law-makin'  Council  of 
our  own  folks  and  no  other  folks,  elected  by  us  and 
nobody  elst — a  Council  what's  our  own  clean  through 
• — a  Workers'  Council  that'll  mean  the  Workers'  will 
same  as  the  'Ouse  o'  Lords  used  to  mean  the  Lords' 
will —  Men!  You  can  'ave  that  Council  in  three 
months  if  you  all  stand  together  through  the  country ! 
If  seven  out  o'  ten  of  us  want  it,  we  can  get  it  in  a 
year!  Then  we  won't  'ave  no  more  cheatin'  an'  lyin' 
of  us  out  o'  our  rights  now  that  they  dassn't  rob  us 
in  the  open.  Mind  you,  it  ain't  only  'ere  this '11  be 
'appenin',  it's  all  over  the  country — all  over!" 

He  paused,  looking  with  a  set  distant  gaze  out  over 
the  open  fields.  His  audience  remained  silent.  Sud- 
denly his  eyes  were  back  at  them,  and  his  chin  set. 

"We  can't  do  it,  can't  we?  Our  friend  Mr.  Perry 
— our  nice  polite  place-seekin '  friend  Mr.  Tool  Perry 
— 'e  says  we  can't  do  it.  'Quite  impracticable.' 
That's  what  they've  always  said:  if  they  don't  want 
a  thing  they  say  it  can't  be  done.  Mr.  Perry  can 
wait.  Mr.  Ga-ma-li-el  Perry,  in  'is  bran-new  sporty 
togs !  'E  'as  very  nice  manners,  we  don 't  deny,  but 
'e  don't  know  everything.  Do  you  think  I'm  a 
dreamer,  men?  Do  I  look  like  a  dreamer?  Is  Mat 
Ford  a  dreamer,  an'  Ben  Webber,  an'  Petey  Farrall? 
I  tell  ye  who's  the  dreamer  now:  it's  that  lord  in  t' 
big  'ouse  who's  dreamin'  if  'e  thinks  'e  can  stop  you 
goin'  to  work  by  that  path  over  the — " 

A  burst  of  cheering  cut  him  off.    Alec  was  surprised 


110  BRUTE  GODS 

by  its  intensity  and  protraction.  Those  other  things 
that  Matcham  had  said  were  so  much  more  im- 
portant. .  .  . 

".  .  .  We've  got  the  rights  o'  things  in  our  'eads 
now,  an'  it'll  take  more'n  the  newspapers  and  the 
'People's  Party'  to  get  'em  out  again. — Well,  boys, 
the  strike  airn't  off  till  'is  lordship  takes  what's  left 
o'  that  gate  away,  an'  then  there  are  bigger  things 
comin'!" 

These  last  words  were  hardly  heard  through  the  im- 
mediate cheers  that  followed  the  reference  to  the  gate, 
and  Matcham  twisted  his  lips. 

"Bigger  things  yet!"  he  shouted.  "What  if  Yet- 
minster  does  give  in  over  this?  That  won't  alter 
what  we're  fightin'  for.  We  won't  go  about  sayin': 
'Airn't  'e  kind?  Airn't  'e  reasonable-like  an'  doesn't 
'e  love  the  pore  workin'  man?'  The  fight  airn't  over 
s 'long's  we're  under  and  they're  up."  Matcham 's 
gestures  grew  freer,  they  had  a  new  violence.  He 
raised  a  clenched  fist  and  drove  it  down  with  an  out- 
ward jerk  of  his  elbow.  "We're  to  see  to  it  that  this 
world  airn't  the  senseless,  stoopid,  ugly,  disgustin' 
scramblin'  an'  tusslin'  an'  bitin'  an'  tearin'  for 
money  as  it  'as  been  all  these  years!  We're  to  see 
to  it  that  we  'as  a  chance  to  live  like  men,  an'  s 'long's 
one  man  'as  'is  private  car  an'  'is  big  'ouse  an'  'is 
servants,  an'  'underds  of  others  'ave  to  weigh  in 
agenst  'im  by  bein'  shoved  out  of  a  decent  life,  so  long 
our  fight '11  go  on!  An'  it  won't  be  enough  for  us 
that  two  or  three  of  our  men  'ere  an'  there  'ave  a 
better  chance  of  gettin'  rich — of  risin'  in  the 


CONFUSIONS  111 

world — "  he  stressed  the  word  with  savage  scorn — 
"than  they  'ad  before.  "We  don't  want  a  world  where 
every,  man  'as  'is  chance  of  gettin'  up  an'  crushin' 
others,  we  want  a  world  where  no  man  'as  the  chance 
o'  bein'  crushed.  We  don't  want  no  jugglin'  an' 
shufflin'  o'  the  same  old  cards.  By  God,  men,  is  it 
any  better  to  'ave  an  open  field  for  this  beastly 
scramblin'  mean  cunnin'  crafty  game  o'  beggarin' 
others  an'  fattenin'  yerself  ?  is  it  any  better  to  'ave 
an  open  field  for  this  than  a  close  one?  It's  not  a 
man's  game,  that,  it's  a  brute's  game — an'  when  they 
talk  to  you  about  savin'  money  up  an'  goin'  on  to 
better  wages  an'  p'raps  startin'  in  business  for  yerself 
some  day,  they're  temptin'  you  to  be  traitors  an'  scabs. 
They're  tryin'  to  turn  you  away  from  the  brother- 
hood o'  man — that's  what  they're  doin'.  Ye  can't 
kneel  yerselves  down  to  their  gods  without  yer  stick 
yer  knees  in  yer  brothers'  chests  an'  on  yer  brothers' 
bellies — an'  the  reason  is  that  their  gods  airn't  real 
gods,  they're  brutes — brutes — they're  brute  gods — " 
He  stopped,  gasping,  and  Alec  was  startled  by  the 
greyness  that  had  overspread  his  face,  a  greyness 
notable,  menacing.  "He  een't  well,  Joe  een't,"  the 
boy  overheard  a  voice  near  by.  "He  du  hully  talk 
quare  when  he  een't  well.  I  don't  rightly  fare 
t'know  what  he's  arter,  du  yu?"  Even  Jos  Clark 
and  the  Reverend  Carrick  and  the  editor  looked  be- 
wildered, but  they  cheered;  so  did  the  Works  men. 
Matcham  had  forgotten  them  all:  not  one  of  the 
audience,  except  Alec,  had  in  the  least  understood 
him  for  the  last  few  minutes,  but  most  of  them  were 


112  BRUTE  GODS 

stirred  by  his  emotion,  drawn  for  the  moment  in  its 
tide.  Alec  was  as  though  battered  and  ungovernable 
in  a  rough  sea-surge,  feeling  danger,  exalted  by  it. 
He  had  not  looked  for  Frippie  again. 

"Well,  boys,  God  bless  yer."  Matcham  had  not 
wholly  recovered  himself,  he  spoke  labouring.  "Fare 
th'  well.  Talkin'  airn't  much,  it's  what  ye  think  an' 
what  ye  mean.  God  bless  you,  women.  "We  want  you 
fightin'  with  us,  we  can't  win  without  you.  An'  ye '11 
hold  up  your  'eads  with  the  best  of  us,  ye  're  not  like 
some  others  who  think  they're  your  betters,  others 
with  fine  white  'ands  an'  wearin'  silks  and  goin'  'alf 
naked  of  an  evenin'."  The  bitter  severity  of  his  con- 
tempt and  condemnation  seemed  to  gnaw  at  the  air, 
and  Alec  had  the  sense  of  gooseflesh.  "Women  who 
wouldn't  soil  their  fingernails  with  a  minute  of  honest 
work,  but  soil  their  honour  with  the  stinkin'  muck  of 
'arlotry — parasites  who  can't  find  nothin'  to  fill  up 
their  idleness  with  but  the  wickedness  of  adultery! 
Thank  God  for  our  women,  I  say!"  Jos  Clark 
gulped  uneasily.  "Thank  God  for  our  wives  an'  our 
sisters  an '  our  comrades  in  the  fight ! ' ' 

Matcham  got  down  from  the  box,  reaching  his  hand 
to  Jos  Clark  for  support.  He  went  straight  into  the 
cheering  crowd  that  pressed  to  him.  They  were  slap- 
ping his  shoulders  and  grasping  his  hands.  Those 
last  remarks  had  been  perfectly  well  understood,  as 
was  shown  by  meaning  looks  and  furtive  smiles.  The 
Reverend  Carrick  clapped  till  his  hands  ached.  Alec 
was  stunned.  Joe  Matcham  on  his  father's  side! 
He  turned  away. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  boy  walked  off  in  dulled  amazement. 
His  mind  hung  motionless  over  the  gross 
and  clogged  brutality  of  that  denunciation. 
How  was  it  possible?  And  Matcham  had  been  so 
fine !  He  had  told  the  truth ;  then  he  had  lied,  he  had 
discoloured  his  truth — shattered  it.  Alec  quickened 
to  indignation.  How  had  the  man  dared?  What 
did  he  know  about  the  Mater,  he  knew  nothing — 
nothing — and  he  could  stand  up  and  shout  out 
" Adultery!" — as  if  that  were  enough.  He  could  say 
these  wrong  lying  things  to  please  the  workmen,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  end  up  with  their  listening  to 
him,  and  they  hadn't  been  listening  properly  just 
before.  He  said  that  for  effect — no,  he  believed  it, 
you  could  see  that.  These  men  didn't  know;  what 
were  they  worth,  what  sense  of  justice  could  they 
and  Matcham  have,  except  just  for  themselves  ?  They 
thought  justice  meant  their  having  more  money  to 
spend  and  other  people  having  less!  As  if  there 
weren't  things  more  important  than  that.  ...  It 
would  be  worse  than  anything,  being  ruled  by  these 
people.  " Brute  gods" — but  you  could  see  that 
Matcham  would  like  to  send  the  Mater  back,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  brutish  than  that.  Carrick 
would  send  her  back,  no  doubt,  and  Stevens — damn 
all  of  them!  Father  Collett  was  much  wiser,  he 

113 


114  BRUTE  GODS 

knew  much  more,  he  would  never.  ...  If  Matcham's 
lot  did  get  all  they  wanted,  it  would  be  just  as  easy 
for  his  father  to  be  what  he  had  been,  to  do  what  he 
had  done — just  the  same;  they  wouldn't  punish  him, 
wouldn't  make  him  pay.  .  .  . 

Those  men  were  shouting  again.  No,  they  weren't 
shouting,  exactly,  they  were  hooting.  Why?  Alec 
hoped  they  were  hooting  Matcham.  He  turned,  and 
there  beyond  the  "Parrot  and  Punchbowl,"  in  rapid 
course  toward  the  Green  that  lay  at  the  turn  of  the 
road,  ran  the  old  "two-seater"  car  with  his  father 
driving  it,  alone.  They  were  threatening  him. 
Perry's  remark  about  bricks  rushed  back  to  Alec's 
mind.  Would  they  attack  him?  He  thrilled  and 
tingled,  he  began  running  back.  He  would  have  to 
defend  his  father,  if  they.  .  .  .  That  was  the  worst 
of  it,  he  would  have  to  defend  him.  What  would 
Matcham  do? 

Alec  ran,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  car.  It  reached 
the  Green  a  minute  or  so  before  he  did,  and  as  his 
father  got  out,  a  stone  was  flung,  smashing  one  of 
the  car's  headlights.  Mr.  Glaive  did  not  seem  to 
notice,  he  advanced  briskly,  with  his  creeping  smile, 
he  held  his  little  figure  sharply  erect.  Another  stone 
was  thrown,  passing  close  by  him :  Alec  could  not  be 
sure  if  he  had  been  hit  or  not.  He  was  darting  for- 
ward as  Matcham  cried:  "Don't  'urt  'im,  boys! 
What's  the  good  o'  that?" 

"Mr.  Matcham,"  said  Glaive,  "you  are  the  chair- 
man, I  believe?  May  I  address  your  meeting,  and  if 
I  may,  will  you  get  me  a  hearing?" 


CONFUSIONS  115 

"If  the  men  want  to  'ear  yer,  they  will  'ear  yer." 

"We  don't  fare  to  wanter  hear  narthin'  off  o' 
him!"  cried  the  workman  who  had  thrown  the  first 
stone.  "Why  couldn'  th'  owd  man  a'  come  hisself, 
'stead  o'  sendin'  his  little  dawg?" 

"Because  he  went  up  to  London  this  morning. 
I've  come  on  my  own  responsibility." 

"Ho,  run  awuoy,  hev  he?" 

"What  I  have  to  say  won't  take  two  minutes,  Mr. 
Matcham." 

Glaive's  tone  was  one  of  friendly  equal  acquaint- 
anceship. Alec  noted,  with  distasteful  admiration, 
that  his  father  gave  no  hint  of  fear. 

"Well,  boys."  Matcham  held  up  his  hand. 
"Shall  we  'ear  what  Mr.  Glaive  'as  to  say?" 

' '  Goo  on,  Joe.     Put  him  up ! " 

"He  heen't  lost  all  o'  his  guts,  hev  he?" 

"An'  no  stones,  boys.  We  play  fair.  Throwin' 
stones  won't  'elp  ye." 

Matcham 's  voice  was  tired  and  hoarse.  He  leaned 
heavily  on  Jos  Clark's  shoulder.  Glaive  jumped  up 
on  the  box,  his  grey  dustcoat  blowing  about  him. 

"If  you're  expecting  any  message  from  Lord  Yet- 
minster,  I  haven't  got  one.  That's  the  first  thing." 
He  spoke  rapidly,  with  a  direct  business  manner — 
no  gesture.  "Lord  Yetminster  had  gone  to  London 
before  I  heard  of  what  happened  this  morning.  I 
want  to  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do,  not  what  he's 
going  to  do.  You  can  guess  that  I  wouldn't  have 
come  out  to  speak  to  you  when  my  heart's  crushed  by 
a  private  grief — a  heavy  personal  loss — " 


116  BRUTE  GODS 

His  voice  trembled  slightly,  but  no  more  than  a 
man's  should.  There  was  a  short  snicker  from  one 
of  the  men,  but  it  at  once  died,  abortive.  The  refer- 
ence had  unmistakably  touched  their  sympathies, 
changed  their  whole  attitude:  Matcham  and  Clark 
and  the  Reverend  Carrick  were  the  most  evidently 
won  over.  Alec  felt  a  drying  heat  on  his  palate. 

"I  wouldn't  have  come  to  you  men  if  I  hadn't  felt 
I  must  come.  Whatever  sorrow — or  shame — "  he 
hushed  his  voice  to  the  word — "whatever  disgrace 
may  come  upon  a  man  must  not  interfere  with  his 
duty  as  a  citizen."  The  Eeverend  Carrick  nodded 
appreciatively.  "I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  feel  as 
strongly  about  this  matter  as  Mr.  Matcham  or  any 
of  you,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  this:  that  either  one 
of  two  things  will  happen. ' '  He  began  to  speak  with 
great  deliberation,  separating  each  word.  "Either 
Lord  Yetminster  will  let  you  men  go  by  that  path — 
or — "  he  sped  up  his  speech — "or  I'll  resign  my  posi- 
tion as  agent  and  help  you  to  break  down  the  gate 
again  tomorrow  morning." 

He  jumped  down  from  the  box  almost  before  he 
had  finished  speaking,  nodded  sharply  to  Matcham 
with  a  quick  "Thank  you!"  and  had  taken  several 
steps  away  from  the  crowd,  through  the  clear  space 
behind  the  box,  before  their  stupefaction  broke  in 
violent  cheering.  Glaive  did  not  turn  his  head:  he 
walked  on  at  the  same  pace  to  his  car  and  began  turn- 
ing the  crank,  with  his  back  to  the  shouting.  Alec, 
who  had  drifted  towards  the  road  to  get  a  better 
view  of  his  father  speaking,  advanced  from  force  of 


CONFUSIONS  117 

habit  to  crank  the  engine  for  him.  ''You  here?" 
Glaive  looked  up,  surprised,  but  evidently  pleased 
that  his  son  had  witnessed  the  scene.  He  did  not  ask 
why  he  had  not  come  home  before.  "Shall  I  take 
you  back?"  he  said,  as  Alec  began  cranking.  The 
boy  shook  his  head.  He  noticed  that  one  of  his 
father's  fingers  was  bleeding  at  the  knuckle.  Glaive 
got  into  the  car  and  drove  off,  as  the  men  surged 
out  to  the  road,  still  shouting,  and  waving  their 
caps.  The  eclipsed  Matcham  waved  his  with  the  rest, 
but  Alec  thought  he  looked  hit;  there  was  something 
dejected,  disillusioned,  something  lonely,  about  his 
walk  and  the  loose  worn  hang  of  his  figure. 

The  car  passed  out  of  sight.  A  couple  of  farm  men 
recognized  Alec,  and  one  of  them  said:  "Your 
father 's  a  game  'un,  een  'the?"  "  Oh,  he 's  all  right, ' ' 
the  boy  replied  shortly,  aware  that  a  number  of  the 
men  had  begun  to  stare  at  him,  realizing  who  he  was. 
He  was  too  much  in  the  thick  of  his  thoughts  to  be 
embarrassed.  There  was  Matcham,  walking  off.  with 
Jos  Clark  and  the  editor.  They  must  know  they 
were  beaten.  "What  would  Frippie  think  of  all  this? 
Would  she  think  anything?  Grapes  would  matter 
more  to  her.  .  .  . 

The  ginger-haired  ironmonger  was  making  for 
Alec:  he  looked  pleased  and  cordial,  probably  he 
wanted  to  offer  his  congratulations.  The  boy  hurried 
off  to  escape  him.  So  that  was  how  it  had  ended, 
with  cranking  up  the  car  for  his  father.  And  cheers, 
not  bricks.  Victory  at  the  price  of  a  hurt  knuckle. 
.  .  .  His  father  had  more  courage  than  he  had.  Oh, 


118  BRUTE  GODS 

there  could  only  be  one  way  against  him!  Alec  was 
choking  impotently  with  tears  and  rage.  Courage 
— cunning — it  had  been  a  great  stroke — no  one  could 
deny.  Father  Collett  was  right:  it  was  possible  to 
be  successful  and  yet  altogether  contemptible — more 
hateful  than  ever  'because  of  the  success. — Matcham 
had  spoken  for  his  father,  then  his  father  had  come 
in  and  beaten  him.  And  no  matter  if  the  Matchams 
or  the  Perrys  or  the  Yetminsters  were  up,  his  father 
was  bound  to  win,  bound  to  come  in  to  win,  just  like 
that,  with  his  creeping  smile. 


CHAPTER  IX 

**"1T  "W"  "TELL,  fat-head,  dinner's  over." 
\\/        "I  know  that." 

T    T  "Why  didn't  you  come  back  with  the 

old  man?"  Mervyn,  with  a  peculiarly  English  look, 
lazy  and  athletic,  was  lying  in  a  deep  chair  by  the 
littered  dining-table.  "He  said  you  were  down  at 
that  show,  he  was  hugely  bucked." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  Alec  rang  the  bell  for  some 
food. 

"Study." 

"Hope  he  stays  there." 

"Oh,  he's  in  a  roarin'  good  temper.  He  was 
frightfully  pipped  before  because  you  didn  't  turn  up. 
Swearin'  at  you  like  hell.  Silly  fool,  you  might  think 
of  me  now  and  again.  There  I  was  hangin'  round 
for  the  bloomin'  sermon,  and  the  guv 'nor  in  the  hell 
of  a  hair  all  the  while.  Then  he  put  it  off  till  four 
o'clock.  Hangin'  round  again.  More  naughty 
temper.  Now  we  have  to  have  it  t 'morrow  instead 
— just  as  bad  as  havin'  it  twice  over.  What  the  devil 
makes  you  so  late?  If  you'd  come  straight  back 
from  the  'Parrot,'  walkin',  you'd  have  been  here  be- 
fore this."  Mervyn 's  tone  was  unwontedly  worried. 

"Oh — I  didn't  feel  like  it."  Alec  was  conscious 
of  the  impossibility  of  explaining  why  he  had 
lingered  and  gone  out  of  his  way.  Having  refused 

119 


120  BRUTE  GODS 

to  ride  with  his  father,  he  didn't  want  it  to  appear 
that  he  had  simply  walked  straight  back  instead. 
"What's  he  doing  in  the  Study?"  he  added  quickly. 

"Makin'  out  a  statement  for  the  Eat." 

"I  wonder  how  the  Rat '11  take  it."  Alec  knew 
how  well  made  out  that  statement  for  Lord  Yet- 
minster  would  be — a  document  of  secret  diplomacy. 
He  sat  down  to  his  warmed-up  beef. 

"The  Rat?"  Mervyn  waited  till  the  servant  had 
gone,  his  upbringing  not  being  sufficiently  aristocratic 
for  him  to  ignore  her  presence.  "Oh,  the  old  man's 
safe.  He  knows  that.  There  are  too  many  on  his 
side.  Gad,  it  was  rather  a  brilliant  idea,  you  know. 
Pretty  clever.  The  gate's  gone  already,  Morris  told 
me." 

"H'm."  Alec  grunted,  depressed  by  the  look  of 
the  salt,  messed  and  melted  by  the  brown  gravy  at 
the  side  of  his  plate. 

"Auntie's  gone  to  bed  with  a  headache."  Mervyn 
spoke  with  the  inflexion  of  taken-for-granted  contempt 
that  always  accompanied  any  reference  he  made  to  his 
Aunt  Cathy.  "Very  peevish.  The  old  man's  good 
spirits  quite  upset  her.  Always  works  that  way. 
Before  that,  she'd  been  no  end  merry  and  bright — 
not  givin'  herself  away,  of  course.  Gone  to  bed 
directly  after  dinner,  and  now  she'll  have  indiges- 
tion." 

He  took  up  the  paper,  and  Alec  ate,  thinking  of 
Father  Collett's  niece  in  the  priest's  dining-room. 
They  would  probably  be  having  dessert  at  that 
moment,  with  port  or  sherry.  Better  stuff  than  this 


CONFUSIONS  121 

beer.  Alec  had  given  no  further  thought  to  the 
priest's  promised  sermon.  That  was  crowded  out, 
well  forgotten. 

"Did  you  know  that  Father  Collett  had  a  niece, 
and  she's  staying  with  the  Burkes?"  he  asked  his 
brother. 

"Oh,  that  foreign-lookin'  girl  with  the  untidy 
black  hair  ?  Met  her  in  Malstowe  with  Doreen  Burke 
this  afternoon.  Queer  eyes.  Damn  good  opinion  of 
herself,  I  should  say — " 

"How  old  is  she?     Is  she  pretty?" 

"Decent  sort  of  figure.  Looked  as  though  she 
didn't  wear  stays  and  didn't  have  to.  Don't  know 
about  her  age,  one  of  those  girls  it's  difficult  to  tell. 
Not  so  awfully  young.  Didn't  attract  me,  so  I  didn't 
think  about  her  bein'  pretty.  She  may  be." 

"You're  sure  she  was  the  one  I  mean?" 

' '  Of  course  she  was,  ass.  Doreen  introduced  her  as 
Miss  Collett,  said  she  was  a  relation — niece  or  cousin 
or  somethin',  I  don't  remember.  Her  eyes  remind 
you  of  the  Bullock's,  too — though,  by  Gad,  her  build 
don't." 

"You  saw  Nita  today,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes — or  rather  I  mean  I  didn't."  Mervyn 
frowned  uneasily  and  took  up  his  paper  again. 

"Oh,  was  she  out?     Rough  luck." 

Alec  finished  his  meat  in  silence,  while  Mervyn  kept 
jerking  one  leg  up  and  down,  in  a  disconcerting 
rhythm  of  unease.  Then  he  dropped  the  paper  on 
the  floor,  got  up  and  pulled  one  of  the  straight-backed 
chairs  round  to  Alec's  side. 


122  BRUTE  GODS 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  sitting  by  him.  "I  may  as 
well  tell  you."  He  glanced  behind  him  at  the  door. 
"Must  tell  some  one.  I  want  to  get  out  of  it!" 

' '  Get  out  of  what  ? ' '    Alec  stared,  startled. 

"Out  of  being  engaged,  you  idiot!" 

"Good  Lord!— Well,  I'm  glad  you  do." 

"Oh,  are  you?  Plucky  lot  I  care  about  your  bein' 
glad."  Mervyn  seemed  offended.  "God,  don't  I 
want  to  get  out  of  it,  though!  Of  course  you  can't 
understand — " 

' '  Why  can 't  I  ? "  Alec  paused :  he  was  not  wholly 
unprepared  for  the  announcement.  He  remembered 
one  or  two  things  that  he  hadn't  made  much  account 
of  at  the  time.  "It  must  be  pretty  awful,  marrying 
some  one  you  don't  want  to  marry.  Don't  you  do 
it.  'S  any  way  I  can  help?" 

"All  very  well  to  say  'Don't  you  do  it.'  " 
Mervyn  drew  his  chair  from  the  table.  "You  don't 
know  how  damn  difficult  it  is,  when  a  thing  like  that 's 
been  runnin'  on  so  long. — You  know  that  girl  Dolly 
Drake. — Go  on,  eat  your  bloody  cheese. — Well,  fact 
is  I've  been  gettin'  in  deeper  and  deeper  with  her: 
I'm  up  to  my  bloomin'  neck  an'  over!" 

"What,  you  don't  mean  you've — ?"  Alec  was 
caught  back  to  Frippie  and  the  mystery  of  his  un- 
known. 

"Of  course  not.  Look  out,  or  111  punch  you  in 
the  eye.  This  is  the  real  thing,  I  tell  you.  Do  you 
think  it  could  make  all  this  difference  with  a  girl 
who  wasn't  straight?  I'd  marry  Dolly  tomorrow  if 
I  could." 


CONFUSIONS  123 

"Well,  of  course  you  can't  marry  Nita,  then.  Why, 
you  oughtn't  to — "  Alec  stopped,  trying  to  re- 
member what  Dolly  Drake  looked  like.  She  was  a 
young  cousin  of  Nita's,  and  she  sometimes  stayed  with 
the  Resines.  Alec  had  only  seen  her  once  or  twice, 
he  had  not  noticed  her  much.  "She's  only  a  kid, 
isn't  she?"  he  asked. 

"Seventeen." 

"When  did  you  first—?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Mervyn  looked  hard  at  the 
table-cloth.  "It  was  something  about  the  way — don't 
you  know,  the  way  she's  made — that  got  me.  She's 
so  slim  to  her  waist,  then  she's  different,  somehow. 
But  that  was  only  the  beginning.  Oh,  Lord,  you 
can't  explain  these  things.  It's  the  way  she  looks 
and  the  way  her  face  changes  when  she  smiles.  She 
makes  me  feel  she  belongs  to  me,  sort  of,  and  then  I 
think  how  I'm  not  supposed  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  her — not  anything  at  all — that  being  engaged 
to  Nita  makes  me  an  utter  outsider  for  her.  Oh, 
what's  the  good  of  talkin'  to  you,  you  don't  under- 
stand. I  keep  thinkin'  of  how  she  goes  up  to  her 
room,  and  does  her  hair  and  washes  her  face  or  gets 
her  things  out  to  play  tennis  in — and  she  might  be  in 
the  North  Pole's  far's  I'm  concerned!" 

' '  But  you  were  awfully  keen  on  Nita,  weren  't  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Never  so  much. ' '  Mervyn  was  emphatic  and  con- 
vinced. "Never  like  this — nothing  like.  It  was  dif- 
ferent with  her.  Somehow  I  could  always  under- 
stand what  I  felt  about  Nita — don 't  you  know,  I  could 
get  it  all — all  there  was.  There  was  nothing — noth- 


124  BRUTE  GODS 

ing  past  it,  if  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  This  is — well, 
it  excites  you  more  in  the  kind  of  way  girls  do  excite 
you,  and  less — much  less  and  much  more.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  hang  it  all."  He  was  trying  to  say 
that  his  feeling  for  Dolly  was  both  more  and  less 
sensual  than  his  feeling  for  Nita;  that,  with  Dolly, 
the  violence  and  the  diffusion  of  his  emotion  were 
in  contradiction.  "This  thing's  like — God  knows 
what  it's  like.  I  started  playin'  that  old  piano  when 
I  got  back,  that  seemed  to —  I  played  all  right,  too, 
I  can  tell  you — better  than  I  used  to  when  I  was 
in  practice.  Or  p'raps  I  only  thought  I  was  playin' 
so  damn  well  because  of  the  way  I  felt.  Then  Auntie 
had  to  come  in,  and  of  course  I  couldn  't  go  on. ' ' 

"You  saw  Dolly  today,  then?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  "What  do  you  think?  No  one 
else  was  in.  It  wasn't  on  purpose ;  I  didn't  know  and 
she  didn't.  I'd  never  kissed  her  before — " 

"She's  fond  of  you,  then?" 

Mervyn  nodded.  He  took  out  his  crumpled  hand- 
kerchief and  stared  at  it. 

"What  exactly  happened?"  Alec,  flicked  by  emu- 
lation, was  eager  for  details  of  guidance. 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  tell  you,  do  you?"  His 
brother  opened  cold  eyes  at  him.  ' '  Not  likely. ' ' 

"Look  here,  Mervyn,  you  simply  can't  go  on  be- 
ing engaged  to  Nita." 

"If  only  it  hadn't  been  for  this  business  of  the 
Mater—" 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

Alec  lit  a  cigarette  and  offered  one  to  Mervyn,  who 


CONFUSIONS  125 

took  it  absently.  The  young  man  went  back  to  his 
armchair,  and  sat  smoking,  thinking.  Alec  sat  by 
him,  near  the  empty  fireplace. 

"It's  got  a  whole  lot  to  do  with  it.  Every  one 
would  say  we're  a  rotten  lot.  The  guv 'nor — " 

"What  the  devil  does  it  matter  about  him?  What 
business  has  he — "  Alec's  antagonism  struck  vio- 
lently. 

"Oh,  he'd  cut  up  pretty  rough.  He'd  be  fright- 
fully vicious  because  it  would  seem  as  though  the 
Mater's  runnin'  off  had  gone  and  bust  things  up  in 
the  family.  He'd  simply  hate  people  sayin'  that — 
and  of  course  they  would.  It  would  be  a  score  for  her, 
you  see:  of  course  it  wouldn't  really,  but  that's  how 
the  old  man  would  take  it,  I'm  certain.  And  people 
are  so  devilish  touchy  about  morals  an'  that. — Damn 
funny  thing  when  you  think  of  it,"  he  went  on  re- 
flectively, "about  the  Mater.  No  reason  why  she 
should  have  stayed  on  here  with  him  and  us,  was  there 
—if  she  didn't  want  to?" 

"Of  course  there  wasn't!  But  why  should  you 
think  of  him?  You're  the  one  who'd  have  to  marry 
Nita,  you'd  have  to  be  married  to  her — for  God 
knows  how  long,  too — " 

"I  know  that!  But  you've  no  notion  how  damn- 
ably difficult  it  would  be  to  break  off.  The  longer  you 
go  on  bein'  engaged  the  worse  it  is.  This  is  dead 
private,  Alec,  but  I  haven't  cared — not  really  cared 
about  Nita  for  the  last  year  or  so.  We've  been  en- 
gaged too  long,  that's  the  trouble." 

He  paused,  thinking  of  how  his  love  had  turned 


126  BRUTE  GODS 

sour,  or  evaporated,  with  the  waiting,  waiting;  he 
knew  the  treasure  to  be  lost  or  spoiled,  because 
guarded  from  him  too  long. 

"Well,"  said  Alec,  "it's  better,  anyhow,  than  if 
you'd  found  out  after  you  were  married." 

' '  Rot !  It  always  happens  then.  Every  one  knows 
that.  And  it's  not  so  bad  because  everybody's  in  the 
same  box.  You  expect  it  then,  and  you  know  you 
can't  get  out  of  it.  I  should  have  had  something, 
too. — Can't  think  how  the  beastly  thing  started,  ex- 
actly. She  began  lookin'  different  to  me,  somehow, 
it  got  on  my  nerves,  some  things  she  did — the  way 
she  said  things  sometimes,  an'  all  that.  I  s'pose  it 
sounds  awfully  caddish,  but  it  wasn't  my  fault,  was 
it?  I  didn't  want  not  to  be  in  love  with  her  any 
more — didn't  do  it  on  purpose,  did  I? — God,  how 
sick  I  get  of  bein'  always  sort  of  put  in  brackets 
with  her — 'Mervyn  an'  Nita,  Nita  an'  Mervyn' — all 
the  time.  It's  enough  to  make  any  one  fed  up.  Since 
I  got  out  of  the  Army  it's  been  ever  so  much  worse. 
I've  seen  more  of  her,  you  see,  been  seein'  her  all  the 
time  when  I  wasn't  at  Oxford — " 

"But  how  about  Dolly?  How  do  you  know  it 
wouldn't  be  just  the  same  if  you  saw  more  of  her? 
Wouldn't  'Mervyn  and  Dolly'  get  to  be  just  the 
same?" 

"Shut  up."  The  young  man  winced  sharply  at 
that  coupling  of  names.  "Of  course  it  wouldn't  be 
the  same,  it  couldn't  be,  ever.  I'm  absolutely  certain. 
I  told  you  it  wasn't  like  Dolly  with  Nita,  not  even 
at  the  very  beginning.  Only  I  didn't  know.  Of 


CONFUSIONS 

course  Nita's  a  jolly  pretty  girl,  and  I'm  fond  of  her 
still,  in  a  way.  She's  a  good  sort,  and  that  makes 
it  worse." 

"I  can't  see  what  right  the  guv 'nor  has  to  stop 
you—!" 

"He's  known  the  Resines  for  years."  Mervyn 
spoke  in  intense  depression.  "Up  at  Oxford  with 
old  Dr.  Resine  an'  all  that.  Nita  will  have  some 
money,  too — a  fat  lot  of  good  that  would  do  me, 
losin'  Dolly!  Of  course  she  won't  have  anything. 
Her  father's  dead.  She's  here  for  a  holiday,  works 
with  some  milliner  in  London.  You  know  what  the 
guv 'nor  would  think  of  that — " 

' '  Oh,  heaps  of  girls  work  for  their  living.  Nobody 
thinks  anything  of  it  since  the  war." 

"Oh,  don't  they?  That's  all  bluff.  At  any  rate 
it  depends  on  the  kind  of  work — how  well  it's  paid — 
and  whether  they  need  to  or  not.  If  Dolly  has  to 
support  herself,  that  means  she's  poor,  and  that's 
enough  for  the  guv 'nor.  That's  one  of  our  wonder- 
ful old  family  traditions,  never  to  marry  a  girl  with- 
out money.  No  Glaive  ever  has.  If  I  broke  off  and 
married  Dolly,  we'd  starve.  The  guv 'nor  would  see 
to  that." 

"Couldn't  she  go  on  working,  just  at  the  start,  and 
you  get  something  to  do  in  London?  I  should  have 
thought,  if  you  really — "  Alec  broke  off,  embar- 
rassed by  the  reflection  that  if  his  father  cut  Mervyn 
adrift,  he  would  be  the  gainer. 

"Rotten  arrangement.  I  couldn't  let  her  work. 
And  the  joke  of  it  is  that  if  we  married  and  I  got 


128  BRUTE  GODS 

some  rotten  job  in  London  we'd  both  be  workin' 
harder  an'  we'd  both  be  worse  off.  Lookin'  after  a 
house  or  a  flat  without  a  servant  would  be  harder  for 
her  than  what  she's  doin',  and  she'd  be  worse  paid 
for  it.  How  damn  silly!  You  don't  think  of  these 
things  till  you're  up  against  them  and  then  you 
wonder  why  in  hell  people  put  up  with  such  bloody 
foolishness. ' ' 

"Perhaps  the  Rat  might  help  you.  He  may  be 
annoyed  with  the  guv 'nor  over  this  gate  business — " 

"You  know — it's  one  of  those  things  one's  sup- 
posed not  to  talk  about,  of  course — but  what's  the 
use  of  always  goin'  on  not  sayin',  when  it's  true? 
Fact  is  the  old  man's  keen  on  Nita  himself.  I've 
known  that  a  long  time.  Any  one  can  see  by  the 
look  in  his  eyes  and  the  way  he  kisses  her — " 

"Good  God,  the  old  beast!"  Alec  flushed  with 
bitter  indignation.  He  saw  his  father,  winning  the 
Factory  crowd  over,  play-acting  with  his  ''great 
grief"  and  "personal  loss" — making  copy. 

"Nita  knows  it  too.  Somehow  I  don't  think  she 
minds,  not  really.  She  seems  to — it  was  partly  that 
that  put  me  off,  to  start  with — that  in  a  way  she — 
well,  she  almost  plays  up  to  him.  You  know  how  a 
girl  can.  Not  that  she  cares  twopence  about  him 
in  that  way,  she  doesn't,  I  know,  but —  We've  never 
spoken  of  it,  of  course,  and  don't  you,  do  you  hear?" 

"I  wish  he'd  die!" 

"You  see,  what  he  wants  is  to  have  her  about — 
son's  wife — in  the  family — callin'  her  his  daughter, 
and  that  sort  of  fake,  an'  bein*  able  to  kiss  her. 


CONFUSIONS  129 

That's  the  kind  of  thing  a  man  seems  to  want  when 
he's  gettin'  too  old  for —  He  wants  it  all  mixed 
up  with  a  whole  lot  of  fake  an'  bluff.  I  tell  you, 
I've  watched  the  guv 'nor  a  bit.  He's  been  a  bit 
suspicious  lately,  guesses  there's  something  up. 
That's  why  he  wants  me  to  chuck  Oxford  so  as  to 
get  married  this  autumn.  Says  he  finds  the  work 
too  much  for  him  an'  wants  me  here.  Wants  to  fit 
up  the  cottage  for  Nita  an'  me — oh,  Lord!  In  a 
couple  of  months  we'd  be  married — " 

"Christ!"  Alec  watched  his  brother's  miserable 
and  frightened  face.  "And  they  gave  you  the 
D.S.O.  for  being  brave !"  He  had  never  seen  Mervyn 
look  so  weakened,  so  helpless. 

"Look  here!"  The  young  man  stirred  nervously 
in  his  chair.  "It  isn't  only  the  guv 'nor.  I  must 
think  of  Nita,  there's  been  all  these  years,  it'd  be 
deuced  unfair,  after  all  it  would  be  a  dishonourable 
sort  of  thing,  breaking  your  word,  I  don't  believe  the 
guv 'nor  would  break  his  word,  not  like  that,  anyhow. 
It'd  be  awfully  hard  luck ;  a  girl  has  some  pride.  You 
see,  if  a  chap  has  had  an  understanding  with  a  girl 
for  five  years  an'  very  likely  spoiled  her  chance  of 
marryin'  any  one  else — hang  it  all,  it  isn't  the  right 
thing,  whatever  way  you  look  at  it.  I've  got  to  take 
my  medicine,  that's  all  about  it — matter  of  honour. 
You  have  to  sacrifice  everything  when  it's  a  matter 
of  honour — let  it  all  go — always  have  to — devil  of  a 
sacrifice — still — " 

The  two  repeated  words  arrested  Alec.  "Sacri- 
fice." "Honour."  The  phrase  Matcham  had  given 


130  BRUTE  GODS 

him — "Brute  gods" — beat  his  remembrance  sting- 
ingly.  It  was  a  phrase  that  baffled  his  understanding, 
vivified  his  emotion.  It  meant  much  more  to  him 
than  it  meant  to  Matcham,  but  meant  it  far  more 
vaguely.  Could  honour  make  a  brute  demand  ?  "Was 
this  honour  of  Mervyn's  really  honour?  Constancy — 
fidelity — dogs  were  faithful. 

"Look  here,  would  it — oh,  damn  honour! — would 
it  be  fair  to  Nita  for  you  to  marry  her  now  ?  Couldn  't 
you  go  and  tell  her  the  whole  thing?  It  would  be 
the  truth,  anyhow." 

"It  would  be  the  same  as  chucking  her.  It's  the 
kind  of  thing  a  man  can't  do." 

"You're  as  important  as  she  is — your  happiness 
is." 

"Well,  but —  You  see,  after  all  that  there's  been. 
There's  been  such  a  devil  of  a  lot.  You  can't  wipe 
that  out.  After  I've  said  that  no  other  girl  could 
ever  make  the  smallest  difference  to  me,  an'  she  said 
she'd  marry  me  just  the  same,  an'  want  to,  even  if 
I  were  smashed  up  for  life  or  blinded — I'd  feel  such 
an  awful  worm."  He  got  up  trembling,  and  walked 
away  to  the  window.  "She'd  have  done  it,  too,"  he 
said,  so  low  that  Alec  could  hardly  hear  him.  "Why 
the  devil  didn't  I  get  a  bullet  through  my  head  out 
there?" 

"Oh,  I  say,  Mervyn,  you  simply  can't!" 

Alec  was  keenly  touched:  he  started  to  go  over  to 
his  brother,  but  shyness  thwarted  his  sympathy,  and 
he  held  back.  He  stood,  pondering  on  this  fresh 
instance  of  the  association,  the  alliance  of  his  father 


CONFUSIONS  131 

with  the  gods  of  the  world.  The  world  was  for  his 
father  against  his  stepmother,  just  as  it  would  be  for 
him  against  Mervyn.  Mervyn  had  first  talked  of  the 
guv 'nor,  then  he  had  talked  of  honour  and  those 
other  things  that  were  against  him  on  the  guv 'nor 's 
side.  The  winning  side!  Alec  remembered  how 
Matcham's  meeting  had  ended.  .  .  .  He  looked  across 
to  Mervyn,  he  must  persuade  him  somehow;  that 
mustn't  always  be  the  winning  side.  Mervyn,  catch- 
ing his  brother 's  glance,  tried  to  pull  himself  together, 
jerked  his  head  back  stiffly,  then  turned  away,  stam- 
mered "Oh,  damn,"  and  sat  heavily  down  by  the 
window,  hunched  up,  his  flaxen  head  between  his 
hands.  He  looked  done  for,  worse  than  collapsed. 
Alec  could  understand  well  enough  Mervyn 's  wanting 
not  to  marry  Nita,  but  he  was  puzzled  by  his  wanting 
to  marry  Dolly  Drake.  The  thing  was  dead  serious, 
any  one  could  see,  and  Mervyn  wasn't  the  sort  of  chap 
who  thought  he  was  in  love  when  he  wasn't,  and  made 
a  lot  of  it.  That  fellow  Williams  might  be  that  sort : 
well,  he'd  better  look  out  if  he  tried  any  nonsense 
on  with  the  Mater!  But  Mervyn — he'd  never  even 
flirted  with  any  one  since  he  got  engaged.  What  a 
damned  shame! 

"Look  here,  I  say."  Alec  took  two  or  three  steps 
nearer  his  brother.  "Don't  you  do  it,  don't  be  a  fool. 
It'd  be— it'd  be  simply  hell." 

"Oh,  what's  the  odds?  I'd  get  hell  from  the  guv'- 
nor  if  I  backed  out,  and  after  all  he'd  be  right,  in  a 
way  he  would,  and  they'd  all  say  he  was." 

"No,  you  wouldn't — I  promise  you  you  wouldn't — " 


132  BRUTE  GODS 

' '  You  ?    What  could  you  do  ? " 

"I  could— you'll  see—" 

Alec  thought:  "I  could  kill  him,  why  not?" 
Flashes  shot  in  his  brain,  he  stood  leaning  over  to 
Mervyn,  breathing  hard,  with  an  excited  sense  of 
power.  He  could  be  stronger  than  Mervyn,  he  felt 
quite  sure  he  could.  Mervyn  was  weak  in  some  ways, 
always  had  been,  he  would  give  in  unexpectedly, 
suddenly:  how  often  he'd  say:  "Oh,  what's  the 
odds?"  or  "Well,  let  it  go,  then."  He'd  never  be 
able  to  stand  up  to  their  father,  not  in  anything  like 
this.  Alec  must  back  him  to  the  limit. 

"Anyhow,"  he  went  on,  "if  the  guv 'nor  cuts  you 
off,  I'll  give  you  your  share.  I  swear  that,  word  of 
honour — " 

"Honour,"  again,  he  thought.  And  of  course  he'd 
be  bound,  having  said  that.  But  that  was  different. 
He  was  impatient  of  his  reflections. 

"Awfully  decent  of  you.  Thanks.  All  the  same, 
the  guv 'nor  will  probably  live  till  we're  both  about 
forty." 

— Kill  him — Alec  thought  again — why  not? 
"Doesn't  matter,  I'll  get  money,  I  can  make 
him—" 

What  good  would  Father  Collett's  way  do?  he 
argued  with  himself.  Just  leaving  it  all,  what  would 
be  the  good  of  that? — leaving  it,  and  thinking  of 
nothing  but  your  own  blooming  soul !  And  what  good 
would  there  be  in  any  other  way,  except — ?  Joe 
Matcham  was  right  about  compromise,  that  fool  Perry 
was  wrong.  Matcham  knew  you  had  to  have  violence 


CONFUSIONS  133 

— the  only  thing  to  smash  these  brute  gods,  as  he 
called  them.  Of  course  it  was!  You  only  had  to 
look  at  the  two  men  to  see  that  Matcham  was  a  fine 
sort  of  chap  and  Perry  a  sneak. 

"I'll  manage  the  guv 'nor  all  right,"  the  boy  in- 
sisted.— If  only  he  could  get  Mervyn  on  his  feet! 
That  struck-down  look  he  had.  .  .  . 

' '  Well,  I  '11  tell  the  old  man. ' '  Mervyn  half  turned. 
"Won't  be  any  good.  Still,  he  might  put  his  foot 
in  it,  somehow — help  me  without  knowing  it,  with- 
out meaning  to.  Just  a  chance." 

"You  won't  give  in  to  him,  will  you?" 

"Oh,  shut  up."  Mervyn  relieved  his  dejection  by 
becoming  nervously  annoyed.  "Do  you  think  I  don't 
want  to  get  out  of  it?  If  only  I  can,  but  I  know  I 
can't,  still  there  might  be  some  way.  Oh,  I'm  talkin' 
rot!"  He  got  up.  "See  that  handkerchief?"  He 
spoke  with  a  mingling  of  shyness  and  bravado.  ' '  She 
threw  it  back  to  me.  Some  one  came  in,  I  thought  it 
was  Nita,  but  it  was  only  one  of  the  servants.  She 
threw  it  back  to  me  from  her  lap.  It  was  the  way 
she  did  it — so  quickly — seemed  to  mean  such  a  lot, 
somehow,  seemed  to  make  a  sort  of  corner  for  us  and 
showed  she  cared  for  me,  her  doin'  it  like  that. 
Dropped  from  my  sleeve,  an'  I'd  left  it  when  I  heard 
somebody  outside  by  the  door.  And  she  said,  in 
quite  a  natural  voice:  'Oh,  I  forgot  you  don't  like 
being  called  Lieutenant  Glaive.'  As  if  that  was 
the  sort  of  thing  we'd  been  sayin'. — Does  make  a 
difference,  you  know,  when  you  have  to  be  careful 
an '  not  let  any  one  find  out.  Makes  everything  worth 


134  BRUTE  GODS 

so  much  more,  makes  it  so  exciting.  "With  Nita,  of 
course —  Funny  thing,  what  a  lot  her  throwin'  that 
handkerchief  back  like  that  seemed  to  mean — " 

He  paused,  while  Alec  reflected  that  it  probably 
meant  she  was  used  to  doing  it. 

''She's  got  brown  hair — and  her  eyes — it's  her 
colour,  too.  If  only  she  hadn't  looked  so  beastly  well 
the  first  time  I  met  her,  an'  so  different  to  Nita.  It 
was  that  that  did  it." 

''Yes,  Nita's  fair,  and  I  suppose  she  isn't  awfully 
strong. ' ' 

"Nita's  jolly  pretty.  I  know  she  is.  But  Dolly's 
something  else — I  can't —  Oh,  I'm  hit  and  hit 
badly,  an'  what's  the  use  of  talkin'?  I'm  talkin' 
like  an  ass.  I'm  only  fit  to  go  to  bed,  I'm  all  done 
in. — What  were  you  up  to  this  afternoon,  away  all 
that  time?" 

"Oh,  I  was  with  Frippie  Clark." 

"Christ  you  were!"  Mervyn  laughed  raggedly. 
"That's  all  right,  eh?  You  were  with  Frippie,  and 
I  was —  What  a  pair  of  rotters!  What  a  bleedin' 
family !  Good-night,  after  that ! ' ' 

Alec,  as  Mervyn  left  him,  vindictively  resisted 
the  application  of  these  phrases.  It  wasn't  they  who 
were  rotters,  it  was  the  way  everything  went  that 
was  rotten.  His  rebellious  hatred  struck  further 
down.  Let  his  father  try  to  stop  Mervyn :  he  wouldn't 
forgive  him  that,  or  anything  else,  either!  He'd 
hit  back,  he'd  hit  hard. 

Alec's  sense  of  the  world's  wrongness  and  his  sense 
of  his  father's  wrongness  were  in  clouded  blend:  he 


CONFUSIONS  135 

saw  his  father's  evil  drawn  out  and  spread  over  the 
general  surface,  but  never,  for  all  its  radiation,  clear 
of  its  personal  known  character.  The  evil  concentred 
the  more  vividly  for  its  expansion,  and  his  father 
stood  out,  with  a  deepened  blackness,  as  a  symbolic 
mark  for  attack.  The  man  was  there,  the  man  he 
knew;  he  could  be  reached.  The  personal  stroke 
would  grow  for  wide  range  to  a  stroke  against  what 
his  father  belonged  to  and  what  belonged  to  him, 
what  held  rule  everywhere,  discolouring,  spoiling, 
preventing.  .  .  .  Brute  gods  and  the  sacrifices  of 
their  priests  and  victims — he  was  in  battle  against  all 
that  in  his  father,  starting  from  his  father.  .  .  .  He'd 
show  that  he  was  in  the  fight. 


CHAPTER  X 

MR.  GLAIVE,  next  morning,  read  the  family 
Prayers  in  high  feather.  His  "When  the 
wicked  man  turneth  away  from  his  wicked- 
ness" was  jaunty,  and  the  Doxology,  which  he  had 
read  the  morning  before  as  though  it  were  the  most 
horrid  curse  in  the  language,  was  friendly  and  genial : 
"  '"World  without  end,  Amen,'  and  all  goes  well  with 
us,  doesn't  it?"  instead  of  "  'World  without  end' 
and  be  damned  to  all  of  you!"  Glaive  hardly  ever 
swore  in  words  before  his  family;  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  he  inadvertently  did,  he  pulled  up  at 
once,  frightfully  upset  by  the  compromise  of  himself, 
of  his  position. 

After  Prayers  he  took  Mervyn  aside  by  the  fire- 
place. "Telegram  from  Lord  Yetminster,"  he  told 
him.  "  'Follow  your  own  counsel.'  Sensible  man." 
He  glanced  at  his  bound-up  knuckle.  ' '  Scars  of  war, 
what?"  he  commented,  with  a  pleased  chuckle. 
"About  that  other  matter,  Mervyn."  He  looked 
down  his  sharp  little  nose.  "I've  decided  to  make 
no  move.  Dignified  silence.  Don't  you  think  so? 
Let  'em  both  go  hang,  eh  ? "  Mervyn  nodded.  Glaive 
looked  up,  catching  Alec's  sinister  gaze.  "What's 
the  matter  ? ' '  He  looked  puzzled  and  annoyed  for  the 

136 


CONFUSIONS  137 

moment,  and  at  once  reasserted  himself  to  Mervyn, 
in  a  louder  voice,  so  that  Alec  and  the  aunt  could 
hear  him:  "Especially  now,  you  understand,  when 
I've — er — 'won  golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of 
people.'  '  He  was  always  fertile  in  Shakespeare 
quotations.  "  'Worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss,'  ' 
he  continued,  with  an  emphasis  of  relish  on  the  last 
word. 

Mervyn  nodded  again,  and  handed  him  a  stuffed 
envelope.  " Meant  to  have  given  you  these  before," 
he  said. 

"Oh.     Bills." 

Glaive's  eyes  darted.  He  took  the  envelope  and 
sat  down  at  his  place.  The  aunt  sat,  too,  with  an 
invalid  air.  Alec  and  Mervyn  remained  standing, 
at  opposite  sides  of  the  table. 

"Lucky  for  you  I've  been  a  careful  man."  He 
turned  the  bills  over.  Mervyn  had  put  the  smaller 
ones  at  the  top.  "By  Jove!"  The  man  looked  up 
with  a  jerk.  "Young  rascal.  Ginnis  &  Cottrell, 
thirty-nine  pound  eight.  You  do  go  it. ' '  He  paused, 
and  his  expression  relaxed.  "I  don't  suppose  young 
Aldborough  has  run  up  much  more  with  them.  Very 
old  firm,  used  to  deal  with  them  myself.  What  my 
father  would  have  said  to  thirty-nine  pound  eight 
at  a  wine  and  tobacco  merchant's.  Of  course  I'm 
not  legally  responsible  for  this,  that's  why  as  a  gentle- 
man I  have  to  pay  it  before  any  of  the  others.  Ginnis 
&  Cottrell  know  that,  the  dogs!  They  know  the 
name. — Hammerton's,  tailors,  twenty-seven  odd. 
Any  more  of  these  thumpers,  eh  ? "  Mervyn,  in  great 


138  BRUTE  GODS 

satisfaction  at  having  taken  what  was  so  evidently 
the  right  moment,  winked  at  Alec  who  did  not  re- 
spond. "At  Cambridge  they  don't  let  them  run  up 
bills  over  a  fiver,  have  to  send  them  in  to  the  tutor. 
How  would  you  like  that?  There's  a  middleclass  ele- 
ment about  Cambridge,  and  it's  been  getting  worse 
and  worse. ' ' 

Aunt  Cathy,  reading  one  of  her  letters,  gave  an  ex- 
clamation. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Catherine?  Do  give  me 
some  coffee.  Well."  He  stuffed  the  bills  back,  and 
held  the  envelope  up  over  his  shoulder  for  Mervyn. 
"I'll  write  you  a  cheque  for  a  hundred  after  break- 
fast. Remind  me.  It's  not  a  precedent,  mind." 

"Thanks  awfully." 

A  hundred  pounds  was  considerably  more  than 
Mervyn  had  expected,  even  under  these  propitious 
conditions.  He  had  not  gauged  the  strength  of  his 
father's  vanity  and  snobbery  in  wrestle  with  his 
meanness. 

"Pay  it  into  your  Bank,  then  write  your  own 
cheques  for  these  fellows.  Ginnis  &  Cottrell  first, 
mind. — Much  better  way.  I  can 't  be  bothered  writing 
cheques  for  all  of  them  separately.  Too  many  im- 
portant things  to  be  seen  to,  and  besides  I'm  not  a 
clerk."  Glaive  was  getting  his  money's  worth.  He 
thought  of  how  he  would  tell  Lord  Yetminster  and 
other  people.  But  perhaps  Mervyn 's  extravagance 
might  alarm  Dr.  Resine.  ' '  Time  you  settled  down  and 
married  Nita,"  he  went  on  with  a  jocular  manner. 
"I'd  much  rather  be  writing  cheques  for  fitting  out 


CONFUSIONS  139 

the  cottage.  Let's  have  a  talk  about  that  after  break- 
fast, my  boy.  About  your  going  back  to  Oxford.  I 
want  to  put  the  thing  to  you — man  to  man.  You 
see,  you  went  up  very  late,  because  of  the  war ;  really 
you're  too  old  for  an  undergraduate.  And  degrees 
don't  matter,  you  know,  unless  you're  going  in  for 
the  Church  or  teaching — " 

"I'm  worried  about  dear  Effie,"  the  aunt  remarked 
mournfully. 

"You're  an  Oxford  man  just  the  same.  In  my 
day  no  man  of  family  ever  took  a  degree." 

"Is  Cousin  Effie  ill?"  Alec  asked,  struggling  from 
this  running  course  of  his  father's  self-expression. 

"Oh,  she  says  she's  taking  care  of  herself." 

"Let's  see."  Mr.  Glaive  took  the  letter.  "Why, 
she  says  she's  nearly  well!  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  'Nearly  well' — ah,  yes."  The  lady  sighed. 
"  'Nearly  well,'  "  she  repeated,  shaking  her  head. 
"But  she  wouldn't  say  she  was  taking  care  of  her- 
self if  it  wasn't  something  serious." 

' '  Oh,  nonsense ! ' ' 

Mr.  Glaive,  annoyed  by  the  familiarity  of  that  kind 
of  observation  from  his  sister,  applied  himself  to  his 
plate  and  showed  his  displeasure  by  silence.  Alec 
was  relieved  of  the  galling  pressure  of  his  father's 
talk.  He  thought  of  the  yesterday's  breakfast:  how 
different,  what  a  lot  had  happened  to  him  since. 
That  giggling  fit  ...  he'd  never  be  like  that  again. 
He  couldn't  possibly —  As  they  all  sat,  eating  and 
silent,  bent  from  habit  to  Glaive's  lead,  the  boy, 
saving  himself  instinctively  from  other  more  disturb- 


140  BRUTE  GODS 

ing  and  dangerous  meditations,  began  thinking  about 
his  aunt.     Why  was  she  like  that? 

Mrs.  Mowry  had  always  been  ill  pleased  by  serenity 
and  contentment  round  about  her :  agitations,  lesser 
troubles  and  alarms,  were  the  nurturing  food  of  her 
spirit.  A  continuous  series  of  such  fears  or  worries 
she  had  always  contrived  for  the  satisfaction  of  her 
needs.  Self-protectively,  the  widow  had  acquired 
fertility  of  invention,  or  her  restlessness  in  ennui 
would  have  driven  her  melancholy-mad.  She  might 
have  stagnated  in  a  dreadful  chronic  depression  with- 
out the  kind  of  excitements  and  sensations  she  could 
make  for  herself.  That  these  excitements  were 
coloured  unkindly  and  forbiddingly  was  blame  to  the 
malice  of  the  sex-disappointment  and  the  sex-thwart- 
ing that  worked  in  her.  She  was  thought  spiteful, 
malevolent,  a  would-be  mischief-maker,  generally 
troublesome  and  ill-natured.  As  she  was ;  but  her  re- 
pellent qualities  were  so  evidently  imposed  on  her 
by  unhappy  and  unnatural  conditions  of  life  that  only 
the  shallow  or  heartless  could  have  condemned  her  or 
not  pitied.  She  wanted  to  be  thought  "temper- 
amental, ' '  difficult  but  interesting ;  she  wanted  people 
to  give  her  serious  thought,  to  be  put  about  by  her 
and  put  out,  to  the  end  of  the  showing  of  herself  as 
a  person  of  some  consequence  and  appeal :  but  she  only 
succeeded  in  being  voted  a  nuisance  and  ignored.  She 
had  made  herself  as  touchy  as  a  proletarian  or  an 
Irishman  or  an  American,  but  her  touchiness  could 
not  prick  the  English  comfort  of  her  relatives  and 
neighbours,  it  could  only  prick  her.  It  was  in  vain 


CONFUSIONS  141 

that  she  was  a  mistress  of  the  art  of  being  offended. 
Yet  she  went  on,  thanklessly  being  thin-skinned.  She 
had  been  diverted  even  from  the  delightful  stir  of  her 
sister-in-law's  elopement  by  reflections,  voiced  to  the 
deaf  ears  of  Mr.  Glaive  and  Mervyn,  on  her  not  hav- 
ing been  invited  somewhere,  on  her  having  been  passed 
by  somebody  or  other  without  recognition  in  the 
Malstowe  High  Street.  Equally,  she  was  thanklessly 
vicious.  It  was  true  that  she  sometimes  did  make  her 
brother  violent  and  angry,  but  only  when  he  wanted 
an  excuse  for  being  so,  as  she  knew:  and  the  knowl- 
edge took  away  all  her  pleasure.  Besides,  his  violence 
and  rank  rudeness  frightened  her;  she  had  to  stop 
then.  The  boys  took  no  notice  of  her,  beyond  a  mild 
and  casual  irritation.  She  sadly  lacked  a  husband. 
Her  only  real  intimate  was  an  old  village  woman  to 
whom  she  was  "kind"  in  the  way  of  small  gifts 
of  food  and  money,  for  the  sake  of  the  moral  prestige 
of  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  idea  that  it  gave  her  of 
herself.  The  old  woman  was  shrewd:  she  repaid 
Mrs.  Mo  wry 's  alms  and  insured  them  for  the  future 
by  telling  her  of  unpleasant  things  that  had  been  hap- 
pening to  neighbours,  or  by  inventing  things  of  the 
sort,  in  case  of  need.  And  she  would  cunningly 
water  the  widow's  morbid  ingrowth  of  suspicion. 

The  thoughts  that  Alec  had  of  his  Aunt  Cathy 
went  within  the  circle  drawn  by  the  urgency  of  his 
present  experience  and  emotion.  These  he  found 
working  toward  some  revision  of  his  old  feeling  about 
her;  he  began  to  look  at  her  from  new  perspectives. 
Before,  he  had  fallen  in  with  Mervyn 's  contempt: 


142  BRUTE  GODS 

or,  Aunt  Cathy  was  there  for  him  as  something  un- 
necessary and  distasteful,  like  a  cold  hot-water  bag 
that  you  needn't  trouble  much  about  so  long  as  you 
kept  it  out  of  the  way  and  could  forget  that  it  was 
there.  Now,  she  had  an  importance,  as  being  dis- 
liked and  put  down  by  his  father.  Alec  reflected  that 
she  had  been  living  with  his  father  longer  than  he 
had;  her  husband  had  died  when  Mervyn  was  a  baby 
— killed  in  an  accident  on  the  honeymoon.  Aunt 
Cathy  must  have  been  quite  young  then. — All  that 
time  she  had  been  with  his  father,  more  than  twenty 
years.  Of  course  that  was  why  she  was  disagreeable 
and  unhappy — no  wonder.  Alec  was  surprised  at 
himself  for  never  having  thought  of  that  before:  his 
father  had  been  a  brute  to  her  as  well,  of  course, 
he  must  have  been,  in  lots  of  ways,  not  only  the  ways 
you  could  see.  Same  as  with  all  of  them — same  as 
with  the  Mater  and  his  own  mother — there  must  have 
been  lots  you  couldn't  see,  all  along.  There  must 
be  any  amount  he  didn't  know  about  Aunt  Cathy. 
He  glanced  at  her  drained  dissatisfied  face  with  its 
dried-in  lines,  her  resentful  tightened  mouth,  her  un- 
quiet washed-out  eyes  with  their  air  of  expectation 
of  affront  from  ambush.  Not  her  fault.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  was  sorry  for  her,  for  the 
first  time  he  wanted  to  say  something  that  she  would 
like  him  to  say.  Cousin  Eflfie — she  was  always  try- 
ing to  talk  about  Cousin  Effie — 

"Are  they  still  living  in  that  hotel?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!" 

The  question  was  so  unexpected,  so  unusual,  that 


CONFUSIONS  143 

Aunt  Cathy  jumped.  Mr.  Glaive  looked  up  quickly 
and  disapprovingly.  "I  think  I'll  go  to  Wethering- 
ham  this  week,"  he  said  to  Mervyn  in  a  tone  of 
superior  detachment. 

"You  mean  Effie  and  William?"  Mrs.  Mowry 
turned  to  her  nephew,  she  laid  down  her  knife  and 
fork.  "Yes,  they  are.  It's  a  great  mistake,"  she 
went  on  with  thin  positiveness.  "A  young  married 
couple  ought  to  be  keeping  house.  I  call  it  evading 
one's  responsibilities.  Effie  says  a  home  is  so  much 
trouble.  But  other  girls  keep  house  when  they  get 
married,  other  girls  have  to."  She  drew  down  her 
lips. 

"I  wasn't  aware,  Catherine,  that  you  had  been 
summoned  as  arbiter  in  Effie 's  domestic  affairs." 

"Oh,  no.  Of  course  I  should  never  dream  of  try- 
ing to  interfere — in  any  way.  Still,  I  must  say — 
It  doesn't  seem  right  to  me.  And  there  are  no  chil- 
dren, either,"  she  added,  patently  aggrieved,  but 
gathering  herself  back  at  once  as  though  on  the  verge 
of  an  indelicacy. 

"Do  let  us  keep  to  matters  of  our  own  concern. 
Our  minds  and  lives  are  not  so  empty,  I  suppose,  are 
they?"  Mr.  Glaive  spoke  with  studied  elocution. 

"Effie  seems  such  a  very  near  relative — almost  like 
a  daughter,  to  me."  Mrs.  Mowry  tried  to  pause 
noticeably.  ' '  But  of  course,  Sidney,  I  know — I  under- 
stand you  very  well.  When  our  hearts  are  all  so 
full —  I  know  7  feel  quite  overwhelmed  by  it  all, 
still ;  yesterday  I  was  quite  ill.  These  poor  boys, ' '  she 
whispered. 


144  BRUTE  GODS 

"Really,  Catherine,  I  see  no  useful  purpose — " 

"I  was  only  thinking,  if  any  other  trouble  were 
to  come  on  us,  now.  Lord  Yetminster  will  stand  by 
you,  Sidney,  won't  he?" 

' '  Oh,  a  man  has  to  take  risks !  Matters  of  that  kind 
are  quite  safely  in  my  hands,  Catherine,  you  should 
know  that  by  this  time.  I  don't  think  I'm  likely 
to  hang  my  head!"  Alec  gave  him  a  bitter  look. 
"It's  been  one  in  the  eye  for  that  fellow  Matcham, 
he  thought  he  had  the  strike  all  going,  and  now  every 
man's  back  at  work,  pleased  as  Punch! — I  think  we 
might  as  well  make  holiday  today  and  all  go  out  in 
the  big  car  to  Lowestoft  or  Felixstowe.  Lord  Yet- 
minster won't  be  back  till  tomorrow. — "What  do  you 
say  ? "  He  looked  round  the  table,  secure  in  his  clever- 
ness and  his  generosity. 

"I  can't  come,"  said  Alec. 

"Why  can't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  have  to  go  to  Malstowe."  The  boy  be- 
thought him  of  Frippie's  grapes. 

"Well,  we  can  run  in  there  first — not  much  out 
of  the  way."  The  father  was  indulgent. 

"I  can't.     I've  lots  of  things  to  do." 

"You  know  very  well  you  haven't  anything  that's 
important — how  should  you?  Don't  be  a  spoilsport, 
Alec.  You're  always  running  off  by  yourself  some- 
where or  other.  What  on  earth  did  you  do  with 
yourself  all  yesterday  ?  You  knew  I  wanted  you  back 
at  eleven." 

"I  went  to  Father  Collett's  and  stayed  to  lunch." 

"Oh,  you  were  with  Mr.  Collett." 


CONFUSIONS  145 

Glaive  objected  to  a  "Protestant  clergyman"  call- 
ing himself  ' 'Father,"  as  he  had  often  told  his 
family,  but  he  accepted  Collett  because  he  was  of  good 
birth  and  well  off,  therefore  entitled  to 'eccentricities. 
All  things  considered,  he  approved  of  this  association 
of  Alec's,  and  he  was  mollified  now  by  Alec's  having 
been  at  the  Vicarage  the  day  before.  It  seemed  a 
becoming  and  proper  thing  for  the  boy  to  have  gone, 
at  such  a  time,  to  a  spiritual  adviser. 

"Well,  I  think  you'd  better  come  with  us  today," 
he  added  in  a  tone  of  pleasant  decision. 

"I'd  rather  not." 

"Suit  yourself,  then,"  his  father  retorted  sharply. 
"You  have  liberty  of  action,  as  you  know.  Too  much, 
perhaps,  but  that  has  always  been  my  method.  You 
will  come,  Mervyn?" 

"Oh,  all  right." 

Alec  looked  reproachfully  at  his  brother.  Of 
course  he'd  go,  he  thought.  The  guv 'nor  could  sign 
cheques:  what  a  beastly  sort  of  arrangement  it  all 
was!  But  how  could  Mervyn  be  expected  to —  He 
didn't  understand,  he'd  always  do  the  easiest  thing 
and  not  trouble  to  think. 

There  were  three  shops  where  he  could  buy 
Frippie's  grapes:  he'd  go  to  them  all  to  see  which 
had  the  best,  the  ones  that  looked  most  like  Wilfred's. 
Tomorrow  morning  he'd  see  her.  If  Aunt  Cathy 
knew  that,  she'd  be  tremendously  worked  up.  That 
sort  of  thing  always  seemed  to  fuss  her  frightfully 
— more  than  anything  else.  Alec  remembered  some 
occasions.  How,  when  Effie  's  little  sister,  their  cousin 


146  BRUTE  GODS 

Molly,  had  been  staying  with  them,  she  had  drawn  him 
aside  and  told  him,  with  a  sort  of  secretive  concern, 
that  she  didn  't  think  he  and  Mervyn  ought  to  take  the 
child  on  their  knees  or  carry  her  about  as  they  did. 
"You  forget  she's  not  really  a  little  girl  any  more," 
she  had  said.  "It  doesn't  look  nice."  She  had 
been  quite  anxious  and  upset.  She  spoke  to  Molly, 
too,  and  Molly  had  repeated  to  the  boys  her  aunt's 
observation  that  "You'll  soon  be  a  little  woman,  dear 
Molly;  you're  getting  a  big  girl  now,  you  know." 
They  had  all  laughed  over  that,  then  they  had  stopped 
laughing,  suddenly  embarrassed.  But  Aunt  Cathy 
was  different  from  his  father  about  these  things,  Alec 
didn't  feel  that  she  was  in  the  same  way  dangerously 
against  him,  she  never  had  mattered  so  much,  and 
she  couldn't  help  it  any  more  than  she  could  help  any- 
thing else. 

The  boy  again  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say 
to  her,  he  wanted  to  make  her  acquaintance.  It 
would  be  worth  while  finding  out.  .  .  .  He  looked  up 
at  his  father,  who  at  once  pulled  his  chair  back.  The 
look  was  one  he  was  not  used  to,  it  put  him  out.  He 
said  grace  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  just  been  con- 
tradicted and  can  afford  to  be  forbearing,  knowing 
himself  in  the  right.  Mrs.  Mowry  immediately  left 
the  room,  as  though  she  had  been  driven  from  it 
but  knew  how  to  preserve  her  dignity  under  the  in- 
sult. "I  shall  be  back  in  about  half-an-hour,  Mer- 
vyn," Mr  Glaive  remarked  tolerantly.  "I  see  you 
in  the  Study  then."  He  clipped  a  cigar.  "I  have 
to  see  to  one  or  two  little  things  in  the  village." 


CONFUSIONS  147 

Now  was  the  time.  This  affair  of  Lord  Yet- 
minster's  gate  had  most  happily  given  him  a  shield, 
it  would  be  between  him  and  public  ridicule.  Noth- 
ing could  have  better  repaired  his  pricked  inflation. 
It  proved  that  he  was  "taking  the  blow  like  a  man." 
He  could  face  people  now,  sustained  by  this  proof, 
put  in  the  right  way  by  it.  He  went  out  for  an 
early  gleaning  of  some  of  those  protective  "golden 
opinions ' '  that  he  had  won. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UNLESS  his  father  allowed  him  the  extrava- 
gance of  taking  out  the  two-seater  car,  Alec 
usually  walked  when  he  went  into  Malstowe. 
There  was  a  motor-cycle  belonging  to  Mervyn,  but 
Alec  disliked  the  things.    He  also  disliked  using  his 
own  ''push-bicycle,"  but  it  was  the  less  unpleasant 
to  him  of  the  two,  so  this  morning  he  decided  to  take 
it.     He  felt  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  walk. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  haste  was  curbed.  He 
had  hardly  ridden  five  minutes  before  the  back  tyre 
punctured.  The  accident  dismayed  him:  it  seemed 
like  some  wilfully  malicious  intervention  between 
him  and  an  unknown  important  accomplishment.  It 
was  like  being  held  back  in  a  bad  dream.  Alec  was 
slow  and  clumsy  about  repairing:  it  would  probably, 
he  reflected,  take  him  longer  to  mend  the  tyre  than 
to  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  into  Malstowe.  If  only 
he  had  Wilfred  Vail !  Wilfred  would  do  it  in  a  couple 
of  minutes. 

He  took  the  bicycle  to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  be- 
gan stripping  the  tyre-cover.  No,  he  couldn't  go 
wheeling  the  beastly  thing  into  Malstowe.  Strug- 
gling with  the  cover,  he  heard  the  approach  of  a 
motor :  one  of  Lord  Yetminster  's,  he  saw  as  he  looked 
up.  He  raised  his  hat  as  it  passed  him.  Lord  Aid- 
borough  and  Lady  Barbara  were  in  it,  the  young 

148 


CONFUSIONS  149 

nobleman  acknowledging  the  salute  with  a  blank  face, 
his  sister  smiling  as  though  she  were  content,  Alec 
thought,  to  have  caught  him  at  a  disadvantage.  He 
wished  he  would  catch  Lady  Barbara  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. He  was  "our  agent's  son,  mending  his  bicycle 
on  the  road,"  that  was  what  he  was  to  these  people. 
Of  course  it  was  his  father's  ridiculous  brag,  his 
Glaive  pretensions,  that  made  it  hurt.  "These 
people"  had  brought  about  his  father's  triumph  of 
yesterday.  "Curse  them,  I  wish  Matcham  would  get 
them!"  he  mumbled.  England  a  democracy!  But 
even  if  it  were,  the  important  things,  the  things  that 
clustered  and  festered  in  and  round  his  father — they 
might  most  of  them  stay  just  the  same.  You  couldn't 
trust  Matcham  after  what  he  'd  said  at  the  end  of  that 
speech.  All  the  worst  of  these  "brute  gods"  would 
be  left.  Alec's  mind  remained  vague  here,  but  he 
clung  to  the  phrase:  it  eased  his  rebellious  indigna- 
tion. 

He  had  been  working  on  the  tyre  for  several  im- 
patient and  exasperated  minutes  when  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  hardly  any  money — not  enough  to 
buy  the  grapes.  He  had  been  so  reluctant  to  ask  his 
father  for  money  that  morning  that  he  had  forgotten. 
Asking  for  it  would  have  been  putting  himself  in  the 
same  box  with  Mervyn:  curse  it,  of  course  he  was 
just  like  Mervyn  in  that  way — dependent.  "Would 
Mervyn  just  keep  on,  in  his  slack  way  ?  Couldn  't  he 
make  Mervyn  see?  Alec  wondered  how  he  himself 
could  have  managed  to  live  "all  these  years"  without 
seeing — putting  up  with  everything  all  the  time. 


150  BRUTE  GODS 

Would  Mervyn  go  and  marry  Nita  after  all?  That 
cheque  for  a  hundred.  If  only  he  knew  how  to  talk 
to  Mervyn,  but  he  couldn't  say  things  clearly  even 
to  himself.  .  .  .  He'd  have  to  have  the  grapes  charged 
to  their  account,  he  must  get  them.  How  beastly 
it  was!  He  was  like  a  slave — his  father's  slave. 
How  could  any  one  say  that  was  right?  If  only  his 
father  would  die — he  deserved  to — it  was  what  ought 
to  happen — kill  him.  Alec's  hand  shook.  Damn, 
he'd  never  get  that  tyre  on.  There  was  another 
motor  car  coming  along,  too.  Not  one  of  Lord  Yet- 
minster's  this  time,  thank  heaven.  A  girl  driving — 
oh,  yes,  Doreen  Burke.  Did  she  see  him  ?  She  always 
drove  so  beastly  fast.  He  raised  his  hat,  standing  a 
little  out  to  the  road,  with  his  back  to  that  con- 
founded bicycle.  The  car  slowed,  then  stopped  a  few 
yards  ahead  of  him.  Miss  Burke  looked  round,  her 
fair  hair  blowing  under  her  tam-o 'shanter. 

"Hulloa,  Alec,  d'you  want  a  lift?" 

He  walked  quickly  up  to  her.  He  had  remembered 
Gillian  Collett.  Then  he  remembered  that  Frippie 
had  said  Doreen  "liked"  him.  He  looked  at  her 
fresh-coloured  sensible  broad  not  uncomely  face  with 
new  interest,  but  without  any  new  attraction. 

"Yes,  thanks,  I  would.    My  bicycle  punctured." 

"Going  to  leave  it  in  the  hedge?  Won't  it  get 
stolen?"  She  wanted  to  take  him  with  her,  but  she 
made  difficulties. 

"Oh,  no,  not  with  the  tyre  off."  Alec  looked  back 
at  the  maimed  thing,  sprawled  up  against  the  hedge, 
its  wheel  up  in  an  awkward  exposure  like  the  leg 


CONFUSIONS  151 

of  a  horse  dead  on  its  back — helpless,  eloquent  of  the 
pathos  of  neglect.  "I  don't  care  if  it  is  stolen. "  He 
opened  the  door  and  got  on  to  the  seat  beside  her. 

"Do  you  want  to  drive?"  She  was  thinking  that 
she  would  like  the  changing  of  places  with  him,  her 
being  in  the  seat  he  had  left,  and  he  in  hers. 

"Oh,  no;  when  you  drive  so  much  better."  Sup- 
pose Frippie  should  see  them?  he  thought:  and  why 
had  Doreen  told  Frippie  that  Jesus  loved  her  ? 

"I  suppose  you'll  soon  be  going  up  to  Oxford?" 
Doreen  Burke  wondered  if  she  should  ask  him  to  the 
picnic-lunch  they  were  having  that  day  near  Mal- 
stowe. 

"Oh,  not  yet.  Not  for  about  two  months."  Those 
grapes — he  would  get  them.the  first  thing. 

"You'll  be  up  one  year  at  least  with  your  brother. 
That'll  be  jolly  for  you  both,  won't  it?"  Alec's 
hair,  she  was  thinking,  was  much  nicer  than  Mer- 
vyn's.  Mervyn's  was  too  light — like  a  doll's.  Alec 
had  rich  hair — the  sort  of  colour  you  saw  in  pictures. 
She  began  to  drive  more  slowly. 

"Yes,  the  war  made  him  late  going  up,  of  course — " 

"What  have  you  got  on  for  today?"  If  she  asked 
him,  would  he  go  ? 

"Oh,  nothing.  Doing  one  or  two  things  in  Mal- 
stowe,  that's  all." 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't — "  The  girl  hesitated. 
He  never  had  cared  for  "going  to  things,"  he  was  al- 
most as  bad  as  his  friend  Wilfred  Vail.  What  was 
the  good  of  asking  him?  Anyhow,  he  mightn't  like 
to  go  so  soon  after  his  stepmother —  But  he  seemed 


152  BRUTE  GODS 

different  that  morning,  and.  .  .  .  "Well,  if  he  ac- 
cepted, then  she'd  know!  "You  wouldn't  care  to 
join  our  picnic  ? ' '  she  inquired  diffidently. 

"Oh,  yes.  Rather."  Alec  again  remembered 
Gillian  Collett.  "I'd  like  to." 

"Good."  She  replied  coldly,  to  make  sure  against 
self -betrayal.  "I  was  rather  afraid  it  might  bore  you. 
Just  an  'anyhow'  sort  of  affair — only  thought  of  it 
last  night.  We're  going  up  by  the  Martello  Tower. 
I  expect  we  '11  play  '  silly  games. '  ' 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.     Rather  sport." 

"Would  the  "foreign-looking  girl  with  the  untidy 
hair  and  queer  eyes"  play  the  silly  games  too? 
Alec  knew  those  games,  so  popular  just  then  among 
the  "young  people"  of  his  neighbourhood.  They 
chose  on  occasion  to  take  up  with  the  amusements  of 
their  juniors,  they  liked  doing  that  by  conscious  choice. 
Boys  and  girls  of  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five  would 
gather  together  and  play  catch-as-catch-can,  hunt-the- 
slipper,  "compliments,"  with  agreeable  licence  to  be 
as  noisy  and  as  free  as  they  liked.  ' '  Silly  games ' '  or 
"kid  games"  was  the  local  term:  there  was  great 
variety  of  them,  outdoor  and  indoor.  Alec  himself 
had  hardly  ever  played ;  he  had  been  too  shy,  and  his 
physical  energy  did  not  naturally  go  that  way. 

"Will  you  play  in  the  Tower  or  outside?"  They 
had  been  driving  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  so. 

"Outside,  I  expect.     It's  such  a  fine  day." 

"Oh." 

Alec  had  been  hoping  that  they  would  play  in  the 
Tower.  It  would  be  easier  for  him,  somehow,  indoors, 


CONFUSIONS  153 

— He  must  find  out  something  about  that  girl,  though 
he  didn't  much  like  asking.  Gillian —  How  queer 
it  seemed  putting  a  girl's  Christian  name  before 
Father  Collett's!  Of  course  it  was  her  being  a  niece 
of  his  that  made  one  want  to  see  what  she  was  like. 

"I  suppose  your  friend  is  coming?" 

"What  friend?" 

"Why,  the  one  who's  staying  with  you.  The  one 
who 's  a  niece  of  Father  Collett  's.  I  haven 't  met  her, ' ' 
he  added  hurriedly,  protecting  himself  from  embar- 
rassment. 

"Yes,  she'll  be  there,  of  course.  I'm  picking  her 
up  in  Malstowe."  Doreen  reflected  that  Gillian  was 
much  older  than  she  was. 

"Father  Collett  says  she's  awfully — I  don't  know 
— views  about  things.  He  seemed  a  bit  afraid  of  her, 
in  a  way." 

"Oh,  well,  sometimes  she  is —  I  call  her  'my 
trial'!"  Doreen  laughed.  She  knew  she  had  to  be 
careful  in  talking  to  Alec  about  another  girl. 
"Clergymen's  relations  often  are  like  that,  you 
know,"  she  added  in  extenuation. 

"Like  what,  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh —  Well,  she  certainly  does  say  the  most  aw- 
ful things!  But  of  course  she's  quite  all  right, 
really — "  Doreen  was  in  difficulties.  "Her  bark's 
worse  than  her  bite.  I  suppose  it  amuses  her." 

"But  what  kind  of  things  does  she  say?"  They 
were  in  the  outskirts  of  Malstowe :  Alec  began  to  be 
excited. 

"Oh — you   know.    Things   that   are   supposed  to 


154  BRUTE  GODS 

shock  you.  I  don't  mind,  she  doesn't  get  any  rise 
out  of  me!"  Would  Alec  think  Gillian  pretty? 

"Will  any  of  the  Eesines  be  there?"  Alec's 
thoughts  went  to  Dolly  Drake. 

"Nita's  in  Ipswich  for  the  day.  I  expect  that 
cousin  of  hers  will  come." 

Alec  looked  at  the  girl.  Evidently  she  disapproved 
of  Dolly.  She'd  disapprove  more  if  she  knew  about 
that  handkerchief.  He  could  tell,  looking  at  whole- 
some fresh-faced  Miss  Burke,  just  what  she  would 
think  of  little  Dolly's  conduct — what  she  did  think 
of  his  stepmother's,  too.  Would  they  all  of  them  be 
for  his  father,  wasn't  there  a  single  one — ?  Alec 
saw  Matcham  and  Jos  Clark  and  Aunt  Cathy  and 
Doreen  Burke,  all  leaping  to  join  hands  together. 
Father  Collett,  of  course,  wasn't  on  any  side,  he 
wouldn't  help  for  or  against:  but  if  he  were  Alec, 
he  wouldn't  be  able  to  keep  out  of  it  like  that.  What 
would  this  Gillian  Collett  think?  He  wanted  to 
know  about  her.  At  least  she  couldn't  be  like  the 
others.  Faced  curtly  by  the  antagonism  that  Society 
brought — and  so  unanimously — to  his  father's  aid, 
the  boy  experienced  what  some  might  have  termed  a 
"hardening  of  heart."  The  new  boldness,  the  new 
unscrupulousness  out  toward  which  he  had  been  break- 
ing, began  to  set  in  lines  that  were  more  determined 
and  conscious  and  cold.  He'd  take  every  advantage 
he  could  get,  anything  would  be  fair  with  so  many 
against  him.  He  'd  look  round — practise  his  strength. 
The  boy  felt  freed,  he  was  put  on  a  new  mettle.  If 
he  made  up  his  mind  not  to  miss  any  chance.  .  .  . 


CONFUSIONS  155 

"Are  you  thinking  about  your  exams?"  Doreen 
asked  gaily.  She  was  pleased  by  his  abstraction,  and 
then  by  the  way  he  answered  her:  "Oh,  no!"  He 
spoke  emphatically  and,  she  thought,  with  meaning. 

"Well,  here  we  are."  Doreen  slowed  down  to  a 
stop  outside  a  stationer's  in  the  High  Street.  "She 
went  in  here." 


DISCLOSURES 


CHAPTER  XII 

A' 'PURE  LOVE"  is  one  of  our  realities;  but 
the  cries  of  poetic  and  moral  rapture 
which  this  emotional  state  provokes  have 
perhaps  unduly  shouted  down  prose  comment  on  it. 
Alec  fully  satisfied  romantic  convention  by  the  draw- 
ing out  of  his  whole  conscious  being  to  this  stranger 
girl:  sense  and  spirit  were  so  equally  committed  to 
the  strong  interlocking  flow  that  flesh-desire,  poeti- 
cally in  that  tide-driven  union,  lost  usual  aspects  for 
recognition.  Mated  under  the  new  stress  with  these 
other  stirrings,  it  took  disguise,  to  the  usual  complete 
complacency  of  Nature  who  knows  her  ends  sure, 
and  the  usual  complete  hoodwinking  of  her  unknow- 
ing instrument.  There  was,  with  Alec,  no  such  local- 
izing of  emotion  as  might  give  room  to  ribald  sneer: 
and  if  he  had  been  informed  of  the  identity  of  the 
essential  control  of  his  condition  with  those  old  known 
forces  of  assault  in  shame  and  pleasure  he  would  have 
given  the  lie,  convinced  and  horrified.  Even  in  his 
affair  with  Frippie,  he  would  have  resented  such  an 
association. 

He  also  complied  with  romantic  convention  by 
"  falling  in  love  at  first  sight ;"  but  not  because  he  and 
Gillian  Collett  were  of  sympathies  that  had  to  rush 
together  and  cleave.  It  was  not  that  their  two  selves 
had  bee  ncomplementary  halves  in  separation,  and 

159 


160  BRUTE  GODS 

that  now  the  sense  of  a  perfect  whole  beat  instant  pulse 
toward  ulfilment.  The  boy  was  at  once  in  love  because 
those  recent  motive  hours  of  his  had  driven  him  swift 
to  a  point  where  such  an  emotional  reaction  had  to  be, 
on  protective  instinct:  and  he  was  subject  to  Nature's 
assertion  of  protest  against  a  wrong  weighting  of  his 
scale  by  hate  and  rebellion  at  a  time  when  her  mating 
urge  had  special  claim  on  him.  The  intensity  of 
feeling  that  had  been  roused  in  him  she  took  and  used 
for  herself,  moulding  accident  to  her  will.  With  the 
girl  Frippie  he  could  struggle  only  abortively  in  the 
way  meant  for  him,  he  could  not  be  turned  whole- 
heartedly by  her,  familiar  to  his  old  simplicities  and 
unawakenedness  as  she  was,  involved  for  him  in  a 
sensual  impulse  too  light,  too  mere,  too  naive. 
Nature's  waste  use  of  that  impulse  was  a  means,  a 
step  on:  for  the  boy  could  now  be  drawn  in  deeper 
devotion,  in  surer  exaltation,  supported  by  the  con- 
trast of  a  desire  so  slight  and  raw  and  meagre  and 
formless  in  its  lack  of  the  mystical  interfusions  of 
love.  The  village  girl  had  not  only  been  too  simply 
female  for  Alec,  she  had  been  too  young  for  him. 
Gillian  Collett's  maturer  years  gave  her  natural  ad- 
vantage of  power  over  the  boy 's  adolescence :  not  only 
her  older  mind,  but  her  older  looks,  the  very  curves 
and  lines  of  her  face  that  denoted  growth  from  young 
girlhood,  impressed  him  to  her  service.  It  was  her 
being  so  well  a  woman  that  brought  him  on  to  the 
sacrificial  absorption  in  a  new  sex-humility  that  he 
found  a  miracle  of  ecstasy  most  of  all. 
He  was  breathless  when  he  saw  her,  but  not  shy. 


DISCLOSURES  161 

The  girl  overcame  shyness,  as  she  overcame  him.  It 
was  her  eyes  in  which  he  was  caught  at  the  first 
moment,  eyes  that  were  bright  and  courageous  and 
mocking;  yet,  as  Mervyn  had  said,  they  were  like 
Father  Collett's,  they  were  live  and  affirmative  like 
his.  But  they  were  not  large,  as  his  were,  and  instead 
of  sloe-black,  the  colour  was  a  pale  elusive  brown, 
with  active  iridescence  sometimes  showing  light  of 
green.  She  gave  Alec  quick  uncertain  almost  childish 
looks,  looks  with  shimmering  edges,  in  contrast  with 
the  grown  character  that  was  so  well  determined  in 
her  face.  His  vision  of  her  swam.  There  was  a  con- 
fusion in  his  sense  of  her  dark  hair  that  Mervyn  had 
thought  untidy  for  its  being  loosely  caught  and  stray- 
ing a  little  about  her  ears  and  neck:  all  the  boy's 
perceptions  of  her  were  broken  and  mixed  in.  The 
wilful  and  liberal  mouth,  in  rein,  it  seemed,  from  the 
clear-drawn  nose  and  full  brow,  the  faint  and  foreign 
flush  of  the  olive  tint  which  by  English  complexions 
showed  the  colour  of  some  unbelieved-in  flower,  the 
startling  slightness  of  figure,  the  body  like  the  crack 
of  a  whip — none  of  these  was  separate  to  the  boy,  all 
was  herself. 

Doreen  Burke,  who  had  become  nothing,  stood  be- 
tween Alec  and  Gillian,  uttering  words  of  which  the 
sound  struck  him  with  a  purely  physical  impact ;  nor 
did  he  take  the  meaning  of  Gillian 's  words  in  answer. 
The  perception  of  her  voice  was  with  him,  in  blend, 
and  particularly  in  blend  with  his  sense  of  her  eyes: 
for  the  voice,  too,  had  edges  that  seemed  to  shimmer 
and  break,  the  tones  went  in  ripples,  unexpectedly 


162  BRUTE  GODS 

changing  and  shortening  and  stilling  and  turning  off. 
She  spoke  with  just  the  quickness  of  her  glance,  with 
the  same  baffling  conflict  of  uncertainty  and  affirma- 
tion. Doreen,  critical  of  her  at  this  moment,  thought 
her  nervous  and  assertive  and  curt.  Fresh  Doreen, 
with  her  common  Saxon  goldishness  of  hair,  her  blue 
and  usual  eyes,  her  frank  unvarying  face,  her  look 
of  having  been  built  honestly  and  well,  gave  Gillian 
an  emphasis  none  the  less  impressive  to  the  boy  be- 
cause its  cause  escaped  him. 

They  went  out  to  the  car.  Alec  wanted  to  speak; 
he  was  urgent  for  the  gain  of  some  sort  of  inter- 
change, something  that  might  relate  him  to  the  girl. 
She  had  hardly  said  a  word  to  him :  he  had  stood  by. 
She  seemed  scarcely  to  have  noticed  him,  why  should 
she?  It  would  be  enough  just  to  be  able  to  know 
her,  a  little,  he  thought.  To  be  able  to  please  her 
— somehow.  Anything,  so  long  as  he  was  not  left 
altogether  outside.  He  opened  the  door  to  the  front 
of  the  car  for  them,  in  silence. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Doreen,  "you'd  better  drive,  Alec." 

"  'Alec'?"  Gillian's  repetition  of  his  name  made 
his  blood  run,  and  Doreen  looked  at  him  uneasily. 
"Then  you're  the — the  friend  of  my  uncle's."  She 
had  been  going  to  say:  "the  boy  my  uncle's  been 
telling  me  about,"  but  she  reflected  that  he  might 
not  like  being  called  a  boy  or  having  been  talked  of. 

"Yes."  He  looked  straight  at  her,  in  courage  at 
the  mention  of  a  name  that  was  intimate  for  them 
both. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  realize — "    She  broke  off,  recalling 


DISCLOSURES  163 

what  her  uncle  had  said  to  her,  how  anxious  he  had 
evidently  been  that  she  shouldn't —  She  laughed. 

"What's  the  matter,  why  don't  we  get  in?"  said 
Doreen,  betraying  resentment.  Then,  to  show  that  she 
was  not  jealous,  she  suggested  that  she  drive,  and 
Alec  and  Gillian  sit  behind.  "I  know  the  car  better, 
of  course." 

""What  am  I  to  do  with  this  nice-looking  babe?" 
Gillian  thought.  Boys  of  that  age  were  so  awkward 
to  deal  with,  unless  they  were  very  bold  or  utterly 
uninteresting.  This  "Alec"  wasn't  uninteresting,  he 
couldn't  be  that,  with  those  very  deep  eyes.  She 
didn't  think  he  would  be  bold.  .  .  . 

"Why  haven't  I  met  you  before?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  don't  know — "  He  hesitated;  what  a  silly  way 
to  answer !  "I  didn 't  know, ' '  he  went  on,  and  then, 
with  forced  resolve,  to  defy  his  difficulty:  "No  one 
ever  told  me  you'd  even  been  down  here  before!" 

"I  haven't,  often.  I  was  here  last  April,  though." 
She  wanted  to  be  kind  to  him,  but  was  at  a  loss  almost 
as  palpable  as  his. 

"Oh,  I  was  away  at  school  then." 

Alec  felt  a  certain  pleasure  in  thus  admitting  to 
her  what  he  felt  as  the  disability  and  inferiority  of 
his  youth.  He  reached  intuitively  for  the  role  of  page 
to  Gillian,  withheld  by  pride  as  well  as  by  fear  from 
the  daring,  even  in  thought,  of  being  her  lover. 

"And  then  I  took  Doreen  to  San  Sebastian." 
Gillian  sat  sideways  in  the  corner  of  the  seat,  observ- 
ing the  boy  in  scattered  glances. — He  must  have  met 
Carlyon-Williams :  what  did  he  think  of  him  ?  had  he 


164  BRUTE  GODS 

felt  that  affair  very  much  ?  ' '  Now  I  'm  almost  always 
in  London.  Are  you  often  there?" 

The  curiosity  that  had  prompted  the  following  on 
of  that  question  was  at  once  satisfied  by  Alec's  re- 
sponse. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  throbbing  with  the  suppression  of 
his  excitement.  ''I  mean,  not  so  often  before,  but 
now  I'm  going  up  to  Oxford  I  shall  be." 

The  girl  looked  away  and  bit  her  lip.  She  would 
have  had  to  have  been  very  much  duller  of  observa- 
tion to  miss  the  relation  to  her  of  the  wondering  devo- 
tion in  his  eyes.  He  was  a  nice  boy,  really,  no  wonder 
Uncle  Leonard  liked  him,  but  what  was  she  to  do? 
That  vivid  colour  and  his  auburn  hair — of  course 
that  meant  he  was  "susceptible."  A  susceptible 
boy — calf-love.  But  she  wasn't  a  calf:  if  she  had 
been  seventeen,  now !  Gillian  remonstrated  with  this 
accident.  Doreen  liked  him,  there  was  that,  too> 
Now  she  supposed  she  would  either  have  to  snub  him 
or  encourage  him.  But  it  was  rather  brutal  to  snub 
any  one  who  would  evidently  give  you  so  little  cause. 
She  thought  of  last  April.  ...  No  one  had  ever  looked 
at  her  like  that  before.  It  was — actually  it  was  a 
.  little  disturbing!  How  absurd!  Well,  if  she  en- 
couraged him,  he  would  get  over  it  soon  enough.  They 
drove  on  in  silence,  as  Gillian  tried  to  determine,  with 
the  honesty  that  she  prided  herself  on  cultivating, 
whether  she  would  really  like  Alec  to  get  over  it  so 
soon.  Her  division  of  mind  baffled  honest  conclusion : 
though  she  soon  became  intellectually  convinced  that 
it  was  her  vanity  that  did  not  want  him  to  draw  out, 


DISCLOSURES  165 

and  some  survival  of  morality  or  sense  of  con- 
venience that  did  not  want  him  to  stay  drawn  in. — 
She  mustn't  play  with  him,  she  really  mustn't — 
especially  after  the  Carlyon- Williams  affair — though 
there  was  a  sort  of  temptation. 

"What  games  do  you  want  to  play,  Gill?"  Doreen 
called  out,  not  well  pleased  by  their  silence. 

''Oh,  anything,  so  long  as  you  have  to  run.  And, 
Doreen,  I  warn  you,  I  shan't  care  what  happens  to 
my  hair." 

"Oh,  nobody '11  mind  about  that." 

Gillian  looked  smiling  at  Alec.  "What  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Glaive?"  She  retaliated  on  the  ill  nature 
of  Doreen 's  remark. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  mind!" 

' '  What  wouldn  't  you  mind  ? ' ' 

"Why — "  He  stopped  and  looked  quite  invol- 
untarily pleading.  "I  mean  what  you  were  talking 
about.  I  shouldn't  mind  if  your  hair  came  down." 

"I  never  said  it  would  come  down!  It  might, 
though — "  She  laughed.  "If  you're  really  pre- 
pared for  it!" 

The  car  stopped,  and  Gillian  opened  the  door  with 
a  sharp  impatient  movement  before  Alec  could  reach 
over  to  open  it  for  her.  He  got  quickly  out,  and  she 
barely  touched  the  sleeve  of  his  outstretched  arm  as 
she  followed.  At  once  she  attached  herself  to  Doreen, 
she  began  talking,  as  they  walked  towards  the  Tower, 
about  the  arrangements  for  the  day,  where  they  would 
have  lunch,  when  the  others  might  be  expected. — 
Why  had  she  said  that  to  him  about  her  hair?  she 


166  BRUTE  GODS 

kept  thinking;  she  hadn't  meant  to,  but  it  was  lead- 
ing him  on,  it  was  playing.  .  .  .  Her  uncle  would 
think  she  had  done  it  on  purpose,  a  usual  female  trick. 
It  had  been  Doreen's  fault.  Gillian  felt  ashamed  of 
herself,  then  she  felt  befooled,  then  defiant  and  deter- 
mined, to  no  end,  then  insecure  and  reckless,  as  though 
of  danger — but  what  danger  was  there? — then  she 
was  nervously  buoyant.  She  laughed  frequently,  and 
she  several  times  put  up  her  hand,  impatiently  de- 
fensive, to  her  hair  that  the  little  quickening  gusts 
of  the  sea  kept  blowing  and  tangling  about  her  fore- 
head and  her  neck.  It  was  trying  and  silly,  how  often 
it  crossed  her  mind  that  it  was  the  first  time  any  one 
had  ever  looked  at  her  like  that — like  this  boy.  .  .  . 
She  never  gave  Alec  even  a  glance  now,  never  spoke 
to  him  except  as  it  were  through  the  medium  of 
Doreen.  "She  doesn't  like  me,"  he  thought;  "she 
wants  to  get  away  from  me. ' '  When  the  others  came, 
he  would  be  kept  more  easily  out,  he  would  lose  her 
still  more.  His  excitement  in  the  suffering  he  had 
from  her  touched  the  tightened  sharp-tuned  chords 
of  the  upper  register  of  his  senses,  gave  him  a  strained 
tremulously  pointed  acuteness  in  response  that  was 
utterly  unfamiliar,  with  its  wavering  twinges  of 
ecstasy  and  eager  pain. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MR.  SIDNEY  STARR  GLAIVE'S  good  tem- 
per did  not  last  long.  All  that  morning 
his  elation  had  gone  ebbing,  by  noon  it  was 
drained  out.  He  had  been  quick  to  see  that  his 
achievement  at  Matcham's  meeting  was  well  dwarfed 
by  his  domestic  calamity,  that  people  were  not  going 
to  let  their  pleasure  in  the  latter  event  be  spoiled  by 
any  such  modifying  diversion  of  interest  as  his  wish 
had  led  him  to  expect.  "Well,  he  may  have  pulled 
that  off,  but  anyhow  his  wife  ran  away  from  him." 
Adultery  was  infinitely  more  appealing  to  the  public 
mind  than  any  strokes  of  local  politics.  Mr.  Glaive's 
nerves  were  sagging  as  he  came  back  home  from  the 
village.  "Dirty-minded  people,"  he  thought,  calling 
morality  to  his  support  as  he  remembered  the  sly 
looks  he  had  had.  And  when  he  had  done  his  best — 
done  so  well!  It  was  most  unfair.  That  scoundrel 
Williams!  Both  of  them  scoundrels.  .  .  .  "Dirty- 
minded,  malicious  people."  McGill,  the  lay-reader, 
had  met  him  in  the  road — intolerable  bounder.  These 
intimations  of  their  "regard"!  Glaive  knew  well 
enough  that  the  only  real  regard  McGill  or  any  one 
else  had  was  regard  for  the  horns  on  his  head. 

Dr.  Resine's  visit,  breaking  in  on  the  very  begin- 
ning of  the  Study  interview  with  Mervyn,  made  his 
sense  of  failure  wince  again.  The  doctor  had  as- 

167 


168  BRUTE  GODS 

sociated  himself  with  him,  had  talked  of  "our  chil- 
dren." His  manner  seemed  impertinently  to  dis- 
credit Glaive's  monopoly  of  injury,  to  suggest  that 
Glaive,  by  some  fault  of  his,  had  hurtfully  involved 
the  Resines.  "How  could  you  have  been  such  a  fool 
as  to  let  yourself  in  for  this?"  was  what  Dr.  Resine 
hinted,  and:  "Well,  now  it's  done,  we  must  help 
you  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job."  When  a  man 
has  been  deeply  wronged,  for  him  to  be  treated  as 
a  fool!  And  all  the  notice  Resine  had  taken  of  the 
gate  affair  was  by  some  stupid  casually  shot  in  re- 
mark about  ' '  wigs  on  the  Green ! ' '  There  was  no  un- 
friendly word  between  the  two  men,  but  the  doctor 
left  after  their  brief  colloquy  with  the  impression 
that ' '  Glaive  wasn  't  taking  the  thing  well  at  all, ' '  and 
Glaive  himself,  giving  his  impressive  parting  hand- 
shake, was  cut  by  discontent  and  irritation.  His  "old 
friend"  was  not  helping  him,  not  standing  by  him  as 
he  should. 

The  injured  husband's  first  emotions  had  been 
theatrical,  now  they  were  real.  Now,  he  began  for  the 
first  time  really  to  miss  his  wife.  When  his  nerves 
were  rasped  he  had  always  particularly  needed  her. 
The  dramatic  excitement  of  her  departure  and  of  his 
rush  for  London;  his  absence,  and  then  the  further 
dramatic  excitement  of  his  speech  on  the  Green,  had 
carried  him  over  so  far:  now  he  realized  as  a  fact 
that  if  he  called  for  her  she  would  not  come,  if  he 
sent  for  her  she  would  not  be  there.  The  astonishing 
wickedness  of  her  conduct  came  home  to  him  with 
a  quite  new  force.  She  must  be  absolutely  heartless 


DISCLOSURES  169 

.  .  .  who  could  ever  have  suspected  that?  And  he 
was  getting  an  old  man.  What  could  the  law  be  about 
to  allow  this — this  crime  against  him  ?  Why,  the  law 
even  allowed  her  to  keep  the  money  she  had  of  her 
own — all  of  it — monstrous !  If  he  'd  run  off  with  an- 
other woman,  he  would  have  had  to  give  Miriam 
money:  yet  there  were  some  fools  who  said  that  the 
law  was  unfair  to  women!  Of  course  he  might  get 
damages  out  of  Williams,  but  then  he'd  have  to  pay 
for  that,  one  way  and  another.  .  .  .  Mr.  Glaive  re- 
membered that  under  certain  ancient  laws  adultery 
was  punished  by  death.  Too  drastic  for  our  day,  of 
course:  he  would  not  have  wished  that;  it  was  his 
natural  nobility  and  generosity  that  prevented  him 
from  wishing  it.  He  would  have  liked  a  heavy 
sentence  of  imprisonment,  a  sentence  that  could  be  re- 
mitted at  the  husband's  will.  Surely  that  would  be 
fair?  At  least  he  would  have  had  the  opportunity, 
by  remission,  of  showing  that  he  was  noble  and  gen- 
erous :  as  things  were,  who  would  know  what  he  was  ? 
He  was  a  fool  to  them  all,  a  laughing-stock. — Yes,  the 
husband  should  have  power  to  remit  the  penalty :  then 
the  wife,  in  gratitude,  would  return  to  him — unless 
she  were  lost  to  all  sense  of  decency.  Miriam  surely 
would.  But  would  he  take  her?  His  thoughts  of 
imaginary  situations  played  on,  a  little  relieving  him. 
Would  it  be  possible  to  take  her  back,  after  that  man 
.  .  .  ?  Could  his  delicacy  of  feeling  .  .  .  ?  No,  it 
would  never  be  the  same,  he  would  still  be  mocked. 
Better  that  she  should  come  back,  and  he  be  sternly 
final,  immoveably  final,  in  his  dismissal :  greatly  merci- 


170  BRUTE  GODS 

ful  in  his  reprieve  of  her  ...  on  condition,  of  course, 
that  she  should  never  return  to  that  low  blackguard. 

Still,  the  loss  would  be  there.  She  had  so  contrived 
it  that  his  loss  was  unescapeable.  He  wanted  her,  her 
absence  deprived  and  shocked  him.  All  these  five 
years  she  had  been  to  his  hand,  she  was  now  habitual. 
He  had  never  regretted  the  marriage — never.  It  was 
this  that  made  it  seem  so  unfair.  And  to  think  that 
she,  with  those  large  truthful  eyes,  that  gentle  voice, 
that  loving  mouth — all  her  sweet  tenderness  and 
humility,  as  he  had  thought.  .  .  .  She  had  never 
crossed  him,  hardly  ever  contradicted  him.  He  could 
see  her :  tall  for  a  woman  she  had  been — had  been ! — 
with  ample  lines  of  breast  and  figure  ...  a  stronger 
appeal  than  his  first  wife  had  ever  had  for  him. 
How  could  he  get  on  with  any  content,  any  comfort, 
without  her?  How  could  a  man  be  expected  not  to 
miss  all  that,  to  get  used  to  having  to  do  without  so 
much? — To  have  to  lie  awake  thinking  of  her  with 
that  vile  beast,  that  thief  in  the  night.  ...  Williams 
was  about  twenty  years  younger  than  he,  not  much 
over  thirty.  Miriam  was  thirty-one.  How  gross! 
Mr.  Glaive's  eyes  filled  with  angry  tears. 

How  easy  it  had  been  for  her !  He  had  slept  alone 
that  night.  All  she  had  to  do  was  to  get  up  when 
every  one  was  asleep,  and  leave  the  house.  He  had 
kissed  her  good  night  in  bed,  and  when  he  came  in  to 
kiss  her  good  morning — a  loving  husband — she  was 
gone.  A  note  left  for  him  on  her  pillow.  He  had 
known  exactly  what  to  do :  prompt  action  was  always 
his  forte.  In  his  dressing-gown  he  had  gone  and  told 


DISCLOSURES  171 

Mervyn,  calmly,  briefly,  holding  up  his  head.  He 
had  gone  to  his  sister,  he  had  said:  "You  are  now 
the  mistress  of  this  house.  It  is  for  you  to  inform 
the  servants — at  once."  Other  men  might  have  de- 
layed weakly,  he  had  fronted  the  situation. — That 
swine!  Of  course  he  had  been  waiting  for  her  in  a 
car.  Nothing  could  have  been  simpler  for  them  both. 
It  was  outrageous  that  such  a  thing  should  be  so  easy 
and  so  safe.  To  get  up  at  night,  to  go  out,  to  get  into 
a  car — that  was  all.  She  knew  they  were  all  sound 
sleepers. 

He  must  have  been  utterly  blind.  Of  course  other 
people  had  seen  what  was  going  on  ...  of  course. 
This  hadn't  come  from  a  clear  sky  for  them,  he  could 
see  that.  The  way  they  took  it  ...  he  had  been 
the  only  blind  one,  because  of  his  trust,  his  love. 
To  think  that  all  these  others  had  seen  which  way  the 
wind  was  blowing!  For  how  long  had  he  been  a 
figure  of  ridicule  in  the  neighbourhood  without  know- 
ing it?  When  he  had  thought  he  was  making  this 
impression  or  that,  they  had  really  been  laughing  at 
him  up  their  sleeves,  all  that  time.  Even  Catherine 
— it  had  not  been  the  same  astounding  shock  to  her; 
she  must  have  suspected. 

Mr.  Glaive  took  the  note  from  his  breastpocket.  It 
stung  him  more  sharply  now,  because  self-pity  held 
him  in  closer  grip. 

"I  am  leaving  you  and  going  with  Hugh  C.  W.  He 
will  not  conceal  it  in  any  way,  neither  shall  I.  If  I 
had  told  you  and  then  gone,  there  would  only  have 
been  useless  scenes,  and  I  should  not  have  changed 


172  BRUTE  GODS 

my  mind,  so  I  am  going  in  what  seems  to  be  the  best 
way.  I  have  wished  to  leave  you  for  a  long  time  now, 
he  gave  me  the  strength.  You  have  never  cared  for 
me  except  because  of  yourself,  and  you  have  no  right 
to  keep  me.  The  happiness  of  two  people  who  love 
one  another  is  more  than  what  you  want.  I  am  sorry 
to  leave  the  boys,  but  they  have  their  lives  before 
them,  an  unhappy  and  weak  stepmother  would  not 
have  done  them  much  good." 

' '  She  admits  she  is  weak, ' '  he  thought,  wilfully  mis- 
reading. "I  suppose  Williams  wrote  the  letter  for 
her,"  he  tried  to  sneer.  "If  she  had  told  me  and 
then  gone.  .  .  .  She  never  would  have  dared!"  He 
was  furious  at  the  charge  that  he  had  not  cared  for 
her  except  for  his  own  sake.  No  one  else  must  ever 
see  that  letter,  should  he  destroy  it  ?  He  locked  it  up 
in  his  desk. 

The  drive  to  Lowestoft  brought  out  new  lines  of 
his  loss.  He  had  always  liked  being  seen  about  with 
so  handsome  a  woman  as  his  wife,  he  had  liked  it  con- 
sciously: the  pleasurable  response  of  his  vanity  had 
never  failed  him.  Now  there  was  only  Catherine. 
Catherine!  Nobody  could  be  proud  of  being  seen 
about  with  her.  Really  it  had  been  a  mistake  his 
persuading  Catherine  not  to  marry  again.  She  was 
no  credit  to  a  man 's  household,  a  silly  tiresome  woman 
to  have  living  with  you,  the  irritation  of  her  wasn't 
worth  the  money  that  she  'd —  He  had  been  punished 
for  his  consideration  of  her  interests  in  stopping  that 
marriage  with  an  undesirable  man.  If  you  were  a 
good  brother  and  a  good  husband,  this  was  the  sort 


DISCLOSURES  173 

of  thing  you  got  for  it !  And  why  wasn  't  Alec  there  ? 
The  trip  wouldn't  have  been  such  a  fiasco  with  the 
four  of  them.  Alec  was  getting  more  selfish  every- 
day— a  selfish  young  cub.  He  would  talk  to  him 
when  they  got  home;  he  must  use  his  authority,  he 
had  always  been  too  indulgent. 

The  depressed  three  of  them  finished  "  making 
holiday"  sooner  than  had  been  planned.  They  had 
a  late  lunch  in  Lowestoft,  then  were  walking  unwill- 
ingly down  to  the  sea,  when  Mervyn,  who  had  hardly 
spoken  a  word,  said  suddenly:  "Oh,  why  not  motor 
on  to  Yarmouth  and  go  to  a  Beach  Concert?"  Then 
he  laughed.  Mr.  Glaive  thought  he  had  never  heard 
so  impertinent  a  laugh.  "If  you  think  I'm  in  a  mood 
for  vulgar  comic  songs!"  he  snapped  back  at  him. 
He  halted.  "You  know  perfectly  well  my  opinion  of 
Great  Yarmouth:  it  is  the  vulgarest  sea-side  place 
in  England!" — "Oh,  I  say,  what  price  Margate?" 
Mr.  Glaive  turned  from  his  son  to  show  his  displeasure, 
and  they  all  three  found  themselves  walking  back  to 
the  hotel  where  they  had  lunched.  They  started  home 
at  once. 

Alec,  when  they  arrived,  was  not  there.  His 
father's  resentment  stirred  angrily.  Now  would  have 
been  the  time  for  his  proposed  family  harangue,  and 
he  could  have  given  the  boy  a  sound  dressing  down 
first.  It  would  have  been  a  help  to  him,  would  have 
eased  him,  doing  that,  and  then  making  the  digni- 
fied and  resolute  address  that  he  had  planned.  "The 
subject  in  my  household  must  now  be  regarded  as 
closed  for  good  and  all."  That  was  how  the  address 


174  BRUTE  GODS 

was  to  end.  His  rage  sputtered  out  against  Alec  in 
vicious  little  red  sparks.  The  boy  could  go  gadding 
out,  day  after  day,  at  a  time  like  this  .  .  .  flagrant 
.  .  .  indecent.  He  was  probably  with  some  loose  girl 
or  other.  Mr.  Glaive's  eye  had  its  tawny  gleam. 

There  awaited  him  in  his  study  a  telegram  and  a 
parcel.  The  telegram  was  from  Lord  Yetminster, 
saying  that  he  would  be  back  that  day  instead  of  the 
next,  and  could  Mr.  Glaive  call  on  him  that  evening 
after  nine?  This  meant  that  unless  Alec  returned 
very  shortly  the  address  must  be  postponed  again. 
Glaive  would  have  to  give  time  to  considering  the 
right  line  to  take  with  Lord  Yetminster,  he  would 
have  to  be  quiet,  think  it  over.  That  statement  he 
had  made  needed  a  little  revision.  If  Miriam  had 
been  there  now,  he  would  have  consulted  with  her, 
she  had  often  been  helpful  in  such  things — feminine 
tact.  There  it  was  again!  He  was  being  reminded 
at  every  turn,  he  would  always  keep  on  being  re- 
minded. .  .  .  Then  he  must  dress,  that  would  take 
time  too.  Mr.  Glaive  did  not  habitually  dress  for 
dinner,  but  he  liked  Lord  Yetminster  and  the  Freyle 
family  to  think  that  he  did:  besides,  he  felt  at  a  dis- 
advantage when  other  people  were  in  evening  dress 
and  he  was  not.  Miriam  would  have  straightened  his 
tie  and  selected  his  most  appropriate  shirt. 

He  looked  at  the  parcel,  which  was  addressed  in 
neat  capital  letters  and  had  an  obliterated  postmark. 
"From  the  library,  I  suppose."  He  was  opening  it 
when  Mervyn  knocked  at  the  study  door  to  complete 
the  interview  that  Dr.  Resine  had  interrupted. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ALEC  returned  a  little  before  dinnertime;  he 
was  in  the  hall  as  his  father,  in  evening 
dress,  came  downstairs. 

"Well,  Alec,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"Oh!"  The  boy  started.  "All  right,"  he  an- 
swered absently. 

The  indifference  of  his  tone  ruffled  Mr.  Glaive  more 
than  his  former  sullenness  and  hostile  looks  had  done. 
The  man  quickened  his  pace,  he  led  the  way  to  the 
Study. 

"I  have  to  tell  you  quite  plainly  that  your  con- 
duct these  last  days  has  been  most  inconsiderate  and 
unbecoming.  Most  selfish.  Do  you  understand?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"How  do  I  mean!"  Alec's  dreamy  look,  his  tone 
of  vague  curiosity  exasperated  him.  "I  mean  that  I 
am  entitled  to  some  consideration  from  you.  Yester- 
day you  absent  yourself  for  practically  the  whole  day, 
you  say  nothing  to  me  about  your  intentions,  you 
think  you  can  come  and  go  as  you  please." 

"You  never  told  me  I  couldn't." 

"No."  Glaive  was  bitter.  "You  trade  on  my  in- 
dulgence. That  is  just  it.  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand, quite  clearly,  that  so  long  as  you  are  under 
age  you  are  under  my  authority.  You  knew  today 

175 


176  BRUTE  GODS 

that  I  wished  you  to  come  with  us  to  Lowestof  t,  didn  't 
you?" 

''Oh,  yes." 

"  'Oh,  yes'!"  Mr.  Glaive  mimicked  him  savagely. 
"That  didn't  matter,  I  suppose?  My  wishes  count 
for  nothing  at  all.  You  are  becoming  impossible. — 
Are  you  going  to  sleep,  sir,  may  I  ask?  You  didn't 
want  to  go,  so  you  didn't  go,  that's  it,  isn't  it?  Now 
what  are  you  grinning  about?"  Alec's  remote  smile 
was  the  most  infuriating  thing  of  all. 

"I  didn't  mean  to.  It  wasn't  at  you."  Alec 
looked  fixedly  at  his  father,  trying  to  realize  that  he 
was  there,  exactly  the  same  as  he  had  been  before. 
.  .  .  His  irrelevance  seemed  grotesque. 

"Now  understand  me.  If  your  own  sense  of  what 
is  and  what  is  not  decent  conduct,  decent  considera- 
tion, isn't  sufficiently  developed,  it  must  be  trained. 
Or  you  '11  go  through  the  world  a  nuisance  to  yourself 
and  every  one  else.  It's  for  your  own  good.  Con- 
sideration for  others  is  the  first  article  of  a  gentle- 
man's code.  It's  his  starting  point.  Haven't  I  con- 
sidered you  all  your  life  long?  I've  fed  you  and 
clothed  you  and  educated  you,  and  all  I  expect  in  re- 
turn is  common  decency  of  behaviour!  Don't  look 
at  me  as  though  you  were  in  the  right !  I  won 't  have 
that  impertinent  staring."  "Not  even  the  grace  to 
hang  his  head,"  he  thought. — "I've  been  too  lax, 
that's  what  it  is.  Now  listen!"  He  paused,  and 
noticed  that  the  boy's  eyes  were  queerly  like  his 
mother's  in  the  early  days.  With  all  her  faults, 
Anne  would  never.  .  .  His  hurt  revived.  "To- 


DISCLOSURES  177 

morrow's  Sunday.  We  go — all  of  us — to  our  parish 
church  for  the  morning  service.  I  myself  shall  go  to 
the  early  service,  for  Communion.  You  can  go  or 
not  go  to  the  early  service,  as  you  choose.  That  is 
your  own  affair,  to  be  determined  according  to  your  in- 
ward feelings.  As  you  know,  I  should  never  dream 
of  dictating  in  so  intimate  and  personal  a  matter 
of  conscience  and  your  private  state  which  you  alone — 
The  Sacrament.  .  .  .  That  is  between  you  and — well, 
you  know.  Mervyn  is  coming  with  me,  and  your  aunt 
Catherine.  We  all  feel,  under  the  conditions  .  .  . 
What  I  do  insist  upon  is  this."  He  squared  himself 
by  the  mantelpiece.  "That  you  come  to  the  eleven 
o'clock  service.  I  shouldn't  need  to  mention  it,  but 
you  have  been  irregular  in  your  church  attendance, 
much  too  irregular.  You've  been  getting  into  loose 
slovenly  habits  all  round,  I've  taken  far  too  little 
notice — " 

"I  can't  go  to  the  service  tomorrow." 

"What!    I  haven't  rightly  understood  you." 

"No,  I  can't." 

They  had  both  paled,  but  both  were  calm,  though 
with  the  father  the  calm  was  only  momentary. 

"You  shall!"  he  broke  out  in  a  cold  convulsion  of 
anger.  "You're  up  to  some  lewdness — meeting  with 
some  low  female.  I  will  not  be  flouted !  Understand 
that  definitely,  finally.  This  ends  it.  I  forbid  you 
to  say  another  word."  Alec  left  the  room  at  once. 

The  father,  alone,  was  assaulted  by  faintness  and 
nausea.  He  turned,  leaning  heavily  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  was  confronted  by  the  reflection  of  his  age- 


178  BRUTE  GODS 

ing  face  in  the  mirror.  "Grey  hairs,"  he  thought, 
"grey  hairs.  And  this  is  how  I  am  treated!"  His 
face  was  grey,  too.  Old — and  he  felt  ill.  They 
would  kill  him  .  .  .  failing  health.  People  would 
say  he  was  beginning  to  '  *  break  up. ' '  He  was  divided 
between  self-pity  and  self-concern.  That  boy — to 
make  him  feel  ill — it  was  criminal.  Criminal. 
After  all  his  kindness  and  generosity  to  them  both. 
He  thought  of  the  cheque  he  had  given  to  Mervyn; 
his  parting  with  that  hundred  pounds  began  to  hurt 
him.  "They  trade  on  my  affection  for  them,  they 
trade  on  it." 

He  sat  down  draggingly.  Miriam  could  have 
managed  Alec,  he  would  have  handed  him  over  to  her 
...  no  further  trouble.  Now  there  was  only 
Catherine — useless.  If  the  obstinate  young  pup  de- 
fied him,  what  should  he  do?  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  forehead.  This  fresh  aggravation,  this  fresh 
difficulty — at  such  a  time.  One  would  have  thought 
that  any  son  with  a  spark  of  filial  feeling.  .  .  .  Yet 
Alec,  out  of  sheer  self-will,  could  hit  at  him  in  this 
way,  hit  at  him  when  he  was  down.  It  was  abomin- 
able! Again  his  anger  leapt.  How  could  he  be  fit 
for  seeing  Lord  Yetminster,  after  this?  Feeling  ill. 
He  wasn't  up  to  it,  he  wouldn't  go.  Lord  Yetminster 
would  understand.  It  would  be  natural,  it  would 
really  be  the  right  thing  for  him  not  to  go.  He  got 
up  and  looked  at  himself  again  in  the  mirror. — Yes: 
Lord  Yetminster  would  see  how  deeply  he  had  felt  it. 
Perhaps  he  had  better  go.  Turning,  he  noticed  with 
intense  irritation  that  Alec  had  not  shut  the  door 


DISCLOSURES  179 

properly;  it  was  slightly  ajar.  The  mixing  in  of  this 
familiar  annoyance  with  Mr.  Glaive's  other  emotions 
was  surprisingly  exacerbating.  He  swore.  Never  in 
any  single  point  was  he  regarded.  "A  man's  foes 
.  .  .  those  of  his  own  household. ' '  Sighing  deeply,  he 
sat  down  again.  The  quotation  somewhat  restored  his 
sense  of  his  importance. 

The  dinner-bell  rang  and  he  heard  the  boys  coming 
downstairs;  rude  intrusions  of  sound  upon  him 
through  that  negligently  closed  door.  As  he  was 
getting  up  to  shut  it,  he  heard  Mervyn's  lowered 
voice:  "Oh,  I  say,  I  didn't  ask  the  old  man  about 
— what  we  talked  about,  you  know.  I  meant  to,  but 
I  simply  couldn't.  You  don't  know  what  he  was  like 
— the  very  worst.  Simply  awful. ' '  The  voice  trailed 
off,  and  the  listening  father  could  not  catch  Alec's 
reply.  Secrets  from  him!  Conspiracies  against  him 
— no  trust — everything  that  was  mean  and  under- 
hand. What  had  they  been  talking  about  behind  his 
back?  He  reflected  vindictively  that  he  would  find 
out:  he'd  know  when  Mervyn  did  ask  him.  His  an- 
swer wouldn't  be  one  to  please  Mervyn,  either,  be 
sure  of  that!  For  a  boy  to  speak  in  such  a  way  of 
his  own  father  .  .  .  his  father  who  was  suffering  and 
wronged,  and  had  just  given  him  a  hundred  pounds. 
No  feeling — the  pair  of  them  against  him. 

Sitting  down  on  the  chair  by  his  desk  he  was  irked 
by  a  hard  extrusive  contact.  .  .  .  The  parcel  that  had 
come  that  afternoon.  He  had  just  untied  the  string 
when  Mervyn — he  remembered.  Now  he  would  see 
what  it  was,  they  could  wait  for  their  dinner  till  he 


180  BRUTE  GODS 

came.  Why  should  he  be  the  only  one  to  be  put  out  ? 
He  unwrapped  the  parcel,  and  the  book  that  was  dis- 
closed opened  of  itself  in  his  hands.  It  was  a 
Eabelais,  with  the  leaves  turned  down  at  the  chapter 
of  Panurge's  consultation  in  the  doubtful  matter  of 
cuckoldry. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ALEC  was  not  occupied  by  reflections  on  this 
lull  in  his  hatred  of  his  father:  this  com- 
plete and  sudden  diversion  of  his  energy, 
this  instant  obliteration  and  replacement  of  his  ob- 
jective, he  did  not  even  partially  realize.  The  figures 
of  Matcham,  Perry,  Father  Collett,  Frippie,  faded 
out:  she  was  there  for  him,  she  herself,  none  else. 
He  was  no  longer  perplexedly  concerned  with  ideas 
about  things  in  Life,  with  the  uncertain  troubling 
suggestions  that  had  risen  out  of  the  air  of  those 
last  two  days.  This  girl  who  was  so  much  for  large 
ideas,  for  spreading  Causes  and  reconstructions,  whose 
whole  pride  was  in  thinking  "we,"  not  "I,"  had  in  a 
moment  narrowed  Alec's  arena  to  the  personal,  dyed 
it  with  the  personal  deeply  through,  from  confine  to 
confine.  By  the  accidents  of  her  hair  and  eyes,  and 
the  make  of  her  body.  Nothing  mattered  to  him  now 
except  as  it  affected  her  for  him,  and  him  for  her. 
If  the  "brute  gods"  left  them  alone,  they  could  be  or 
not  be:  if  his  father  kept  out,  he  could  be,  or  not. 
Rebellion,  revenge  and  hate  wilted  out  of  life,  foreign 
growths  in  a  soil  which  was  nothing  for  them.  The 
important  thing  was  that  his  father  should  not  stop 
him  here  where  his  sole  will  lay:  injury  to  his  father 
was  of  no  moment,  unless  it  would  help  Alec  here, 
and  the  boy  would  have  done  any  benefit  to  his  father 

181 


182  BRUTE  GODS 

or  to  any  one  else  for  the  same  end.  It  was  thus  that 
the  pure  and  absorbing  passion  of  first  love  alchem- 
ized wicked  unfilial  thoughts  and  intentions. 

The  boy,  clutched  by  Life  and  reeling  under  Life's 
tremendous  values,  could  be  grazed  for  two  or  three 
slight  moments  by  surprise  at  his  father,  even  by  pity 
for  him,  for  his  worried  vainly  assertive  buzzing  on 
through  an  existence  that  was  not  life  at  all,  and 
surely  never  could  have  been.  His  father  could  never 
have  known — never.  And  Mervyn — what  a  pity  that 
Mervyn  could  not  know,  either;  that  he  could  think 
himself  in  love  with  that  girl  Dolly  Drake.  Alec 
could  have  no  enthusiasm  now  for  his  brother's  rap- 
port with  Dolly  or  breach  with  Nita:  both  girls  took 
their  places  with  Doreen  Burke  for  added  emphasis 
of  the  uniqueness  of  Gillian.  It  could  not  matter 
much  which  of  the  two  Mervyn  married,  Mervyn  who 
was  not  in  love.  Dolly!  who  at  the  picnic  had  been 
flirting  with  somebody  or  other,  more  or  less,  when- 
ever Alec  noticed  her,  which  was  not  very  often.  But 
he  had  seen  that  her  eyes  were  empty;  and  she  was 
coarse — coarsely  built — yes,  "beastly  well";  certainly 
Mervyn  was  right  about  that.  Mervyn — it  was  a 
pity:  he  could  not  think  of  him  much,  he  couldn't 
be  awfully  sorry — how  could  he?  A  boy  of  nine- 
teen, suddenly  upraised  to  a  flaming  isolation  from 
the  entire  universe,  may  well  be  enwrapped  in  his 
miracle. 

He  did  not  hope  that  she  loved  him.  Such  a 
miracle  as  that  he  could  not  reach  to :  the  conception 
of  it  went  beyond  light,  it  went  rushing  into  the  void 


DISCLOSURES  183 

of  black  that  lies  uncompassable  beyond  the  light  that 
is  last  and  brightest.  To  his  quite  serious  sense  it 
would  have  been  not  less  than  enough  to  kill  him. 
But  in  the  miracle  that  he  had  she  took  her  con- 
scious part,  for  she  had  touched  that  first  astonish- 
ment of  his  doubt  and  fear  and  pain,  and  changed 
it  of  her  will :  she  had  of  intent  liberated  the  paling 
blood  of  his  first  emotions  to  expand  and  mingle  in 
veins  more  greatly  charged.  She  had  asked  him  to 
meet  her.  She  knew.  The  marvel  was  theirs. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  only  they  had  been  alone, 
all  that  long  afternoon.  The  rest  was  shouts  and 
chatter  and  many  faces  confused  to  the  likeness  of 
one  intervening  animal  substance  thought  of  as  "the 
others."  This  substance  obscured  her.  She  seemed 
to  be  dreadfully  far  off;  it  was  as  though  at  any 
moment  she  might  vanish.  Even  when  he  was  quite 
close  to  her,  as  often  during  a  game  of  Prisoners' 
Base,  "the  others"  robbed  him  of  any  real  sense  of 
her.  He  kept  in  struggle  against  thwarting  odds. 
At  the  end  of  that  game  Doreen  had  said,  with  a 
rather  petulant  snapped  laugh:  "Now,  Alec,  you're 
to  be  captain  of  a  'side'  in  the  next.  I  hope  you're 
duly  elated. ' '  The  phrase,  though  so  usual  to  the  girl, 
so  much  in  her  type,  had  struck  him  heavily.  "Duly 
elated."  He  pondered  on  its  meaninglessness  to  him. 
"Elated"— "Gillian"— was  it  possible  to  think  that 
name,  to  harbour  it?  If  as  captain,  with  first  choice, 
he  were  to  say:  "I'll  take  Miss  Collett,"  the  world 
might  suddenly  stop.  He  chose  Doreen.  It  was  for 
hide-and-seek.  Gillian  as  she  passed  by  him  to  go 


184  BRUTE  GODS 

on  the  other  "side,"  murmured:  "You  must  find 
me";  she  flashed  on  him  the  stupendous  range  of 
meaning  that  Doreen's  pondered  term  could  have. 
While  they  were  hiding,  Alec,  instead  of  keeping  his 
eyes  on  the  ground  according  to  code,  made  eager 
scrutiny.  Soon  he  saw  her  at  the  top  of  the  Tower: 
he  could  not  tell  if  she  had  seen  him  looking.  She 
disappeared  behind  the  parapet. 

When  he  found  her,  she  was  sitting  on  the  sunned 
stone  floor,  closely  in  a  corner,  her  knees  drawn  up, 
and  her  tiny  brown  hands  that  Alec  had  not  noticed 
before,  clasping  her  knees.  The  attitude  seemed  to 
condense  and  impress  her.  She  was  flushed,  and, 
though  still,  her  limbs  and  features  seemed  to  have 
underflow  of  motion. 

"You  were  slow,"  she  said,  smiling  quickly,  then 
turning  from  him. 

"I  came  at  once — straight."  "The  others"  could 
see  him,  standing  up.  He  sat  down,  not  close  to 
her.  They  were  hidden  by  the  parapet.  "Is  there 
any  one  else  hiding  up  here?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  London  tomorrow  evening,  you 
know. ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean?  Won't  I  see  you  again? 
Couldn't  you — ?  Your  hair  looks  very  soft,"  he  told 
her,  gravely  urgent.  "Is  it?" 

"That's  why  it  gets  like  this.  Hair's  difficult  if 
it's  soft — difficult  to  keep  in  order." 

The  boy's  question  seemed  to  have  stilled  the  im- 
patience that  had  run  flecking  Gillian's  first  words. 
She  spoke  slowly,  shifting  her  posture :  with  her  chin 


DISCLOSURES  185 

resting  on  her  hand  she  looked  at  him,  with  a  look 
that  was  disquieted,  almost  sad.  "I've  annoyed  her," 
he  thought.  What  could  he  do  now?  If  only  he 
knew  just  what  she  would  like.  Footsteps  sounded 
in  ascent  on  the  steps. 

' '  I  '11  be  here  tomorrow  morning, ' '  she  said,  without 
any  emotion,  it  seemed,  but  that  of  decision. 
"Eleven." 

"All  right."  They  both  rose,  and  Doreen  was 
there,  with  some  boy. 

With  all  the  driven  will  of  youth,  with  all  youth's 
illusive  sense  of  power,  and  youth's  proud  ignorance 
of  the  inevitable  unplacated  world-old  use  that  is 
made  of  it,  the  use  that  smells  of  death,  Alec  went  to 
the  appointment  that  Sunday  morning.  He  rode 
Mervyn's  motor-bicycle:  Mervyn,  when  he  had  asked 
if  he  might,  had  said:  "I  haven't  lent  it  to  you, 
mind;  you  took  it."  His  father  had  been  at  a  bed- 
room window,  he  had  seen  him  start.  ...  In  a  few 
minutes  they  would  all  be  going  to  the  Parish  Church 
— one  of  Mr.  Braithwaite's  sleepy  sermons — McGill 
reading  the  lessons.  All  these  people — "the  others," 
all  of  them — they  were  husks.  How  could  they  go  on  ? 

As  the  lover  rode,  wondering,  Father  Collett,  feel- 
ing anything  but  a  husk,  was  finally  revising  the  ser- 
mon that  he  had  been  "dared"  to  give  by  a  teasing 
boy,  slightly  drunk.  In  an  hour  or  so  he  would  be 
delivering  it.  Had  he  in  any  sense  evaded  his  prom- 
ise? had  he  been  in  any  way  obscure,  guarding  him- 
self? He  read  intently,  with  tightened  mouth  and 
harassed  eyes.  At  least  he  believed  what  he  had 


186  BRUTE  GODS 

written — all  of  it:  he  would  never,  so  he  passionately 
assured  himself,  have  consented  to  speak  against  his 
belief — not  even  for  Alec. 

The  boy  thought  suddenly  of  his  stepmother.  He 
felt,  for  the  first  time  in  thought  of  her,  ashamed. 
Gillian  knew,  of  course.  What  a  pity  that  the  Mater 
should  have  done  that,  now!  It  was  something  that 
came  wrongly,  something  to  be  fended  off,  something 
of  hurt.  He  would  not  for  the  world  have  soiled  her 
by  mention  of  it.  It  would  be  terrible  to  speak  of  the 
Mater  or  of  "Williams  in  her  presence.  Alec  was 
perturbed. — On  the  way  back  yesterday  he  had  seen 
a  man  and  a  girl  in  one  of  those  shells  of  houses  that 
the  encroaching  sea  had  battered  and  wrecked  near 
by  the  Martello  Tower:  the  man  had  his  arms  round 
the  girl,  their  heads  were  touching.  Alec  had  turned 
away,  repelled.  Before,  he  would  have  taken  it  as 
a  matter  of  course,  he  might  have  laughed.  Now  it 
seemed  disgusting,  blasphemous.  And  his  step- 
mother's elopement  had  something  of  the  same  look, 
now,  but  involving  him  more,  so  that  the  shame  of  it 
was  heightened  and  much  more  personal.  Such  were 
the  workings  of  feminine  refining  influence,  such  were 
the  tricks  of  sex. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE  reached  the  Tower  before  eleven,  and 
waited  for  her,  lying  on  the  grass  of  the 
artificial  hill  that  rose  up  round  the  empty 
moat.  It  was  one  of  those  Towers  built  in  Napo- 
leonic times  for  protection  along  the  coast:  a  heavy 
Georgian  edifice,  not  much  in  use  either  before  or 
since  the  recent  war.  The  drawbridge  was  always 
down,  and  the  gate  rarely  locked.  To  the  east  was 
the  sea,  immediately,  and  westward  a  stretch  of 
brackish  river,  with  a  jutting  landing-stage,  near 
which  accumulated  sail-boats  and  row-boats — small 
haphazard  craft.  The  southward  cut  one  blankly  off : 
here  were  dykes  and  no  human  signs.  Malstowe  to 
the  north  had  at  this  distance  a  quality  of  pictur- 
esqueness  always  freshly  surprising  those  familiar 
with  the  near  aspects  of  the  town :  seen  in  the  rise  of 
her  hill  past  the  water-reach  and  the  flat-land  she 
suggested  by  a  skilful  stroke  of  pretension,  Venice; 
even  the  tower  of  her  waterworks  helped  to  impress 
the  resemblance;  it  was  not  too  unlike  a  Campanile, 
seen  from  there.  But  river  and  dykes  and  flat-land 
to  west  and  south  were  prevailingly  Dutch:  they  had 
the  reassuring  philosophic  repose  of  Dutch  vistas.  In 
the  tempered  kind  warmth  of  the  summer  morning 
those  sails  of  pale  yellow  and  rich  red-brown  stirred 
dreamily,  and  the  very  smoke  from  the  tavern  and 
the  few  cottages  that  lay  between  river  and  sea  was 

187 


188  BRUTE  GODS 

half-asleep.  What  Alec  noticed  was  that  there  did 
not  seem  to  be  any  one  about.  His  keen  sentience 
and  beating  expectation,  in  divorce  from  all  these 
appearances,  did  not  parley  with  them  either  in  re- 
sentment or  acceptance.  The  scene  looked  tolerantly 
on  at  him,  and  continued  in  its  mood. 

He  could  not  see  Gillian  in  his  mind  with  any  clear- 
ness, but  this  did  not  tease  him  as  with  Frippie:  he 
was  full  of  the  sense  of  her.  It  was  now  past  eleven. 
The  distant  bells  of  Malstowe  Church  had  finished  the 
tolling  of  the  last  ten  minutes  before  the  Service 
hour.  Alec  looked  up  along  the  rough  road  toward 
the  town;  there  was  no  one.  He  could  just  discern 
a  sailor — a  woman  carrying  a  pail.  Gillian  not  in 
sight.  .  .  .  After  a  minute  or  two  he  turned  toward 
the  sea,  and  there  she  was,  within  speaking  distance 
of  him,  walking  rapidly  along  the  beach,  with  un- 
swinging  gait,  her  head  raised.  He  stood  up.  She 
walked  looking  to  the  sea,  so  that  her  face  was  from 
him:  there  was  a  loose  curl  under  the  tassel  of  her 
black  fez-like  hat.  She  wore  a  blue  serge  dress  with  a 
green  sash.  Alec's  eyes  widened  and  lightened  at 
the  lines  of  her  straight  figure,  with  their  firm  and 
delicate  boldness  of  stroke — away  from  her  slight  but 
not  boyish  hips  to  her  breast  and  neck,  and  again 
away  downward  to  the  rippling  edge  of  her  skirt  that 
seemed  drawn  close  to  her,  yet  unimpeding.  And  she 
came  for  him,  altogether  for  him:  she  had  banished 
''the  others." 

Approaching  the  Tower  she  turned  and  saw  him. 
They  went  to  meet  each  other. 


DISCLOSURES  189 

"Now  tell  me  first — "  She  gave  no  greeting,  she 
spoke  with  a  tightened  abruptness,  her  unsmiling 
ambiguous  glance  dropped  from  him  at  once.  "Tell 
me  just  how  old  you  are." 

"Nineteen.     Doreen  could  have  told  you  that." 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  you  to  Doreen.  Doreen 
wants  to  talk  about  you  to  me.  She  could  have  told 
you  how  old  I  am,  did  she?" 

' '  No — of  course. ' '  They  began  walking  up  the  hill 
to  the  drawbridge. 

"Well,  I'm  twenty-six." 

"I  shouldn't  like  you  to  be  any  other  age.  Not 
for  anything." 

Gillian,  embarrassed  and  pleased  by  the  earnest 
weight  of  his  words,  laughed  to  hide  her  feelings,  then 
stopped  short,  ashamed.  To  behave  like  a  silly  girl 
— with  that  kind  of  dissimulation,  she.  .  .  .  How 
deep  his  eyes  were!  Why  didn't  he  give  her  his 
arm,  going  up  this  steep  little  hill?  She  took  it, 
half-defiantly,  half-capriciously,  then  she  was  almost 
drawing  away.  It  was  as  though  somehow  she  had 
bared  him  .  .  .  the  sensitiveness  of  his  touch  went 
through  her,  she  could  feel  it  tingling  in  her  fingers, 
alarmingly.  She  must  do  something,  say  something, 
give  some  direction  to  this,  not  let  them  both  be  at 
the  mercy  .  .  .  taken  aback.  Her  intellect,  intensely 
conscious,  rebelled  against  this  emotional  attack,  so 
impertinently  sprung  upon  her,  and  unfairly,  so 
swerving  her  from  her  old  lines  and  meditated  action, 
bidding  her  "  do  as  she  was  told, ' '  on  the  moment,  with 
none  of  her  wonted  view  of  what  she  did  or  why  she 


190  BRUTE  GODS 

did  it.  And  it  was  not  as  though  she  were  in  love 
with  this  child,  either.  She  liked  him,  liked  very 
much  his  liking  her. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  she  demanded  with  an 
imperative  assertion  summoned  to  her  need.  She  was 
getting  more  used  to  his  arm  now,  it  was  not  quite 
so —  "I  wanted  to  know  more  about  you.  That's 
why  I  came  this  morning." 

"Oh,  I— well,  that's  just  what  I  don'1^-  There 
hasn't  really  been  anything,  you  see — not  anything 
important.  Not  till  now.  I  suppose  I've  just  gone 
on." 

He  spoke  without  any  shyness,  without  marked  hesi- 
tation. She  had  freed  him  of  shyness,  he  was  grate- 
fully conscious  of  that.  For  an  instant  he  thought  of 
Frippie,  but  then  she  had  freed  him  because  she  was 
so  much  less  than  he  was,  he  saw  that  now.  Gillian 
was  so  infinitely  more,  he  had  only  to  wait  on  her 
power,  to  rest  in  it  ...  no  need  of  anything  but  that. 

"You  only  think  so."  They  were  at  the  top  of  the 
hill,  by  the  steps  that  led  down  to  the  dry  grassy 
moat.  Alec  released  her  arm,  but  at  once  took  it 
again,  took  it  afresh,  as  she  felt,  with  a  renewal,  in 
disturbing  difference,  of  that  tremor.  She  drew  from 
him,  and  then  was  exasperated  with  herself  for  being 
"coy."  These  "instinctive  girlish  movements" — 
really!  "Most  things  that  are  important  happen  be- 
fore you're  nineteen,"  she  went  on  in  a  common-sense 
tone.  "Inside  things,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  no." 

He  gave  her  the  same  wondering  deep  look.    She 


DISCLOSURES  191 

tried  to  clutch  her  excitement  and  scan  it:  she  could 
not.  There  were  beating  wings  in  her.  With  head 
half-turned,  she  stood  looking  on  the  ground,  as  Alec 
was  speaking.  She  heard  him  dimly;  he  was  more 
decided  than  he  had  been  before.  She  liked  that.  .  .  . 
It  was  with  this  boy's  stepmother  that  Carlyon- Wil- 
liams had  run  off;  how  queer.  .  .  .  He  was  assuring 
her  that  there  hadn't  been  anything  important,  that 
nothing  had  happened,  to  count.  .  .  .  She  knew  what 
he  meant — oh,  he  meant  the  usual ' '  I  never  knew  what 
it  was  to  live  till  I  met  you!"  She  tried  to  feel 
cynical,  she  couldn't,  it  was  all  too  sweet  to  her.  But 
comedy  broke  into  her  exaltation  when  she  reflected 
on  her  attitude — head  turned,  eyes  averted,  a  Royal 
Academy  picture  of  "First  Love"  or  "A  Meeting." 
She  was  not  young  enough  to  escape  the  ridiculous- 
ness of  sex.  In  a  half-resentful,  half-humourous  de- 
fiance of  herself  she  argued  that  she  wasn't  posing, 
that  it  would  have  been  a  pose  for  her  to  have  stood 
anyhow  else.  Then  her  mind  stiffened,  she  resolved 
not  to  let  herself  go ;  she  would  think. 

They  found  themselves  walking  down  the  narrow 
steps  together,  closely  together,  as,  walking  so,  they 
had  to  be.  He  felt  her  hair  against  his  cheek  once, 
lightly.  He  realized  her  as  neither  tall  nor  short; 
a  head  shorter  than  he,  perhaps.  He  was  much  more 
contained  and  sure  than  he  could  have  believed  he 
could  be :  all  ungainliness  was  gone,  he  had  to  follow 
in  the  line  of  her  poise  and  grace,  to  take  their  sug- 
gestions. How  she  helped  him !  Again  his  reflection 
was  grateful:  he  thought  of  the  rude  challenge,  the 


192  BRUTE  GODS 

gross  insistence  of  the  emotions  that  Frippie  had 
made  in  him — their  evasions  of  promise,  their  false 
starts  and  empty  conclusions.  What  there  had  been 
was  so  little,  contenting  for  a  time  because  he  didn't 
know,  but  what  virtue  or  meaning  had  those  satis- 
factions held?  And  when  he  had  reached  for  more, 
there  had  been  nothing.  No  lying  intimations,  now 
— there  would  be  everything  endlessly — clear  joy  and 
understanding. 

"Why  did  you  take  me  down  here?"  She  spoke 
with  forced  lightness,  relieving  the  importance  of  their 
silence. 

"Did  I?" 

They  stood  on  the  last  step.  Gillian  looked  up. 
There  was  nothing  but  Tower  and  sky,  they  were 
walled  in.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be  beating  in  strong 
little  waves  that  broke  in  her  throat.  Why  had  she 
allowed  this,  and,  having  allowed  it,  why  was  she 
agitated,  almost  frightened — frightened  of  nothing? 
She  had  to  make  an  effort  not  to  tremble.  Alec  real- 
ized with  bewildering  suddennesss  that  she  was  stand- 
ing facing  him,  with  her  back  to  the  high  wall  of  the 
moat. 

"Well!"  she  exclaimed.  "We're  here,  anyhow!" 
She  gave  him  one  of  her  racing  looks.  "No,  stay 
where  you  are.  I  want  to  see —  Take  your  hat  off, 
I  like  your  hair. ' '  She  told  herself  defiantly  that  she 
would  say  anything  she  chose,  she  invoked  arrogance 
to  her  rescue  from  this  disconcerting  stress.  But  it 
was  extraordinarily  difficult  to  say  anything  that 
wouldn't  sound  either  pointless  for  them  or  coquettish 


DISCLOSURES  193 

or  utterly  bald.  "Well?  We  are  two  ridiculous 
people ! ' '  She  laughed,  and  put  her  hands  up  behind 
her  head,  lifting  her  chin  a  little. 

' '  Why  are  we  ?     You  aren  't. ' ' 

Alec  stopped,  held  by  the  new  look  of  her  throat 
— the  look  that  her  raising  and  turning  of  her  chin 
had  given  him.  He  moved  to  her  under  the  impulse 
of  that  unfamiliar  straining  curve,  that  delicate 
tightening  of  the  pale  olive  flesh. 

"You're  wonderful."  He  was  close  to  her,  he 
spoke  low.  "I  don't  know — I  didn't  know  that  any 
one  could  be  so — " 

' '  Oh,  I  'm  not !  You  can 't  really — I  mean  you  don 't 
know  at  all!" 

Her  arms  dropped,  she  wavered  before  him.  His 
look  of  utmost  conviction  shamed  her  words.  That 
religious  look  of  a  devotee,  it  was  absorbingly  new 
to  her,  yet  not  new,  she  had  in  some  sort  known  it. 
It  was  terrible  that  he  should  be  so  sure,  that  his 
youth  should  do  this  to  him:  it  was  terrible,  and 
great.  That  strong  eagerness  of  his  mouth,  his  eyes 
so  darkly  lit,  his  boyish  candour,  all  his  unknowing 
boldness  .  .  .  she  could  have  dropped  at  his  feet 
and  humbled  herself  to  him  for  ever.  No  other  way  to 
hold  fast  by  that  tenderness  and  passion.  He  could 
subdue  her,  this  boy  who  seemed  to  be  at  her  will. 

' '  I  want  you ! "  he  whispered.  ' '  You  can 't  tell  how 
much — I  must — " 

"But  what?"  She  held  out  her  hands,  and  he 
caught  them,  burning  her  though. 

"It's  not  like  anything  I've  ever — it's  because — 


194  BRUTE  GODS 

Oh,  I — I  love  you!  May  I  say  that,  do  you  mind? 
do  you?" 

Her  mouth  shook,  she  waited  for  him  to  say  it 
again. 

" May  I  kiss  you?" 

The  girl  of  twenty-six  was  wholly  taken  by  that 
question  which  no  one  but  a  novice  can  ever  ask. 
The  contrast  of  his  diffidence  and  humility  and  re- 
straint with  the  overpowering  and  momentous  com- 
pulsion that  drove  from  him,  so  sure  in  his  mouth  and 
eyes,  confirmed  her  his.  She  did  not  answer,  she 
looked  hard,  then  she  kissed  him,  and  stayed. 

In  that  chaste  transfiguration  of  flesh  they  were 
lifted,  they  flew  in  gold  light,  in  a  brightness  that 
turned  Time  and  all  else  black,  made  all  else  nothing. 
In  the  quivering  expanse  of  their  fused  selves  light- 
ning shook,  waves  of  far  strange  air  swept  on  their 
unison,  moulding  it  in  light  and  heat,  creating  it  as 
a  third  thing,  a  new  being,  apart  entirely  from  the 
cast-off  mortalities  that  lay  shrivelled  from  them,  for- 
gotten. They  clasped  this  new  life,  transubstantiated 
flesh  and  soul  in  their  sacrament. 

When  she  left  his  arms,  he  had  part  in  her  still, 
she  being  of  him  still  when  they  sat  with  hands  that 
clung  for  full  remembrance,  full  assurance  of  a  pos- 
session that  no  heavier  physical  stamp  had  blurred, 
no  stamp  of  Nature's  material  will.  He  spoke  her 
name  then  for  the  first  time.  ' '  Gillian ! ' '  Over  and 
again  he  said  it:  ''Gillian — dear — my  Gillian." 
Her  looks  for  him  now  were  from  stilled  eyes,  eyes 
that  had  known  and  rested  in  the  event.  She  was 


DISCLOSURES  195 

pale,  her  mouth  no  less  than  her  eyes  seemed  changed, 
there  was  a  new  severance  of  her  lips. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  asked  anxiously,  mistaking 
for  suffering  her  look  of  desire  to  suffer. 

' '  You  do  love  me  ?    You  are  sure  ? ' ' 

"I  always  shall!" 

He  touched  her  soft  mutinous  hair,  kissed  her  mouth, 
her  mouth  only.  He  was  no  practised  satiated  lover, 
to  dally  with  her  neck  and  throat.  She  was  in  swirl 
of  feelings  that  she  could  not  face  in  any  free  regard 
for  what  they  were:  all  her  instinct  battled  against 
the  admission  of  them  to  her  conscious  thought.  She 
could  but  strive  feebly  for  the  honesty  in  which  she 
had  such  pride,  she  could  only  think:  "And  I'm 
modern!"  Could  any  woman  be  modern  when  it 
came  to  this  ?  This  resonance  of  the  mouths  of  ancient 
powers  and  glories.  .  .  .  His  hair  and  forehead 
pressed  to  her.  .  .  . 

"No,  Alec!"  She  tightened  his  hand.  "Not 
now.  I  can't,.  I — " 

She  was  afraid.  He  felt  a  shiver  pass  through  her, 
into  him. 

"Gillian.    You  are  happy,  aren't  you?" 

"Am  I?  I  must  be — I  don't  know —  You  moved 
in  my  heart.  All  that  time,  you — " 

"You  did  in  mine!  But  you're  trembling,  again. 
Why?" 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  suppose  it's  a — a  sort  of  wind 
of  love."  She  bit  her  lip,  ashamed.  "What  are  we 
to  do,  Alec?  We  don't  know  what  to  do!" 

"Oh,  I  never  could  have  thought — "    He  looked 


196  BRUTE  GODS 

white  and  spent.  "I  didn't  dare,  Gillian.  It  seemed 
too  wonderful,  I  couldn't  even  think  it,  do  you  know? 
"We're — we're  each  other's,  aren't  we,  always?" 

"'Always'?"  Her  voice  broke.  "Oh,  Alec,  if 
only  you  weren't  so  young — if  I  wasn't —  It  isn't 
fair.  You're  seven  years  younger."  Gillian  sum- 
moned her  strayed  forces.  She  clutched  at  the  reac- 
tion which  seemed  for  the  moment  to  give  her  the 
chance  for  the  honesty  which  that  intellectual  con- 
science of  hers  demanded.  She  tried  not  to  feel  his 
hand.  ' '  Have  you  thought  just  what  that  means  ? ' ' 

"But  I  told  you,  dearest,  that — "  His  dark  eyes 
were  on  her  in  anxious  surprise. 

"I  know.  I  know  you  did. "  She  saw  how  eagerly 
the  sun  played  with  his  hair.  "But  you  won't  think 
so  in  five  years '  time — or  less — Alec. ' ' 

"111  always  think  so,  you  know  I  will.  How  could 
I  love  any  of  these  young  girls  like  you?  They're 
stupid.  You  're  only  teasing. ' ' 

"Perhaps  you  couldn't,  now.  You'll  be  twenty- 
three  when  I'm  thirty.  Nothing  can  ever  get  us  away 
from  that." 

She  did  not  wince,  but  stiffened,  under  her  cruelty 
to  herself.  She  was  of  Father  Collett's  blood.  But 
she  could  not  speak  her  torturing  thoughts  further, 
could  not  say:  "And  when  you're  thirty — a  middle- 
aged  woman!"  Instead,  she  had  to  think:  "After 
all,  I  shouldn't  look  middle-aged,  I'm  sure  I 
shouldn't." 

"You  might  get  tired  of  me,"  she  went  on,  "you 
would—" 


DISCLOSURES  197 

"Tired  of  you?  Why,  Gillian  dear,  you  must 
know — " 

"Well,  but — "  There  was  no  arguing  with  the 
boy's  indignant  amaze,  but  again  her  reason  caught 
Gillian,  caught  her  in  stiffening  breeze,  billowing  out 
the  sails  of  her  theories.  "It  always  happens,  it's 
the  way  things  are.  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  read  '  Mademoi- 
selle de  Maupin'?" 

"No.  I've  read  some  of  de  Maupassant."  He 
said  that  so  hopefully,  so  much  as  though  he  had  done 
the  next  best  thing,  that  Gillian  for  the  brief  moment 
could  have  kissed  him  in  simple  affection.  ' '  How  well 
you  speak  French!" 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to.  The  girl  in  that  book — 
she  leaves  the  man  after  they've  loved  each  other 
for  one — for  one  day." 

"I  say!  Gillian!  You're  not  going  to — "  He 
pleaded,  alarmed.  "You — you  do  like  me!" 

"You  know  I  like  you.  Yes,  I  suppose  so!"  She 
gave  a  laugh  that  ran  light  and  shining,  child  to  her 
voice  and  eyes.  Those  sails  of  theory  collapsed  quite. 
For  her  to  lecture  him  from  the  text  of  "Mademoiselle 
de  Maupin"! 

"I  never  have  loved  any  one  at  all  before!"  He 
flushed  over  his  spent  look. 

"Neither  have  I !"  It  was  true,  in  an  even  deeper 
sense  than  Alec's  assertion.  Gillian  had  the  fastid- 
iousness often  found  with  passionate  temperaments 
that  are  joined  to  active  minds.  "And  I  want  you 
to  love  me,  Alec,  I  do,  I  do!  There!" 

She  lay  yielding  in  the  assurance  of  his  arms.     That 


198  BRUTE  GODS 

first  violent  shaking  transcendence  was  gone  from 
them  now,  they  rested  together  in  sweet  armistice, 
they  were  nearer  to  one  another  because  further  from 
their  passion.  Gillian  felt  that  her  closed  lids  burnt 
blue,  not  red.  He  kissed  her  lips,  but  more  tenderly, 
more  consciously.  These  were  not  moments  of  that 
first  huge  surge  and  crash,  they  did  not  break  so  far 
beyond,  they  were  moments  that  would  come  back  to 
surer  remembrance.  .  .  .  His  embrace  grew  more 
close,  it  began  to  challenge  what  they  had,  it  flushed 
her  surrender  with  deeper  colour.  She  had  to  refuse, 
to  resist;  she  left  him. 

"Alec, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Oh,  I  wonder  what  will  happen 
to  us  ?  It  seems  so  much  as  if  you  couldn  't  tell ! ' ' 

' '  We  '11  marry,  of  course ! ' ' 

"Will  we?"  She  stopped,  and  looked  troubled, 
almost  sad. 

"Then  we'll  always  be  together — always — and 
every  one  will  know!"  He  spoke  triumphantly, 
proudly.  "When  people  are  in  love,  they  always 
marry,  don't  they?  Unless — " 

He  broke  off,  blushing,  remembering  Gillian's  "ad- 
vanced opinions,"  wondering.  He  had  not  thought 
of  them  since  seeing  her,  and  their  association  with 
her  now  seemed  terribly  indelicate.  Father  Collett's 
feelings  about  marriage  did  not  so  much  as  graze  him, 
neither  then  nor  later. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!" 

Gillian  was  harassed.  She  found  herself  wanting 
to  get  Alec  to  talk  of  Doreen,  she  wanted  to  know  if 
there  had  been  anything  between  them,  anything  at 


DISCLOSURES  199 

all.  She  was  consumingly  anxious  for  him  to  say 
something  that  would  put  Doreen  far  below  her. 
How  unworthy  this  was,  she  thought,  how  mean! 
She  rejected  her  wish.  Marriage.  .  .  .  She  knew 
what  she  ought,  in  that  intellectual  honesty  of  hers, 
to  say,  but  she  couldn't — not  to  this  boy  who  loved 
her,  whom  she —  She  felt  wicked,  now.  Her  natural 
conscience  seemed  to  be  working  against  her  intellec- 
tual wickedness.  She  found  it  equally  difficult  to  live 
up  to  her  theories  or  to  her  desires.  "How  atavis- 
tic I  am!"  she  thought.  "It's  absurd."  Then  with 
blinding  clearness  she  saw  that  the  real  temptation — 
for  she  had  money  enough — was  to  take  him  and  marry 
him  and  keep  him  as  long  as  she  could.  This,  as  she 
saw  it,  was  the  real  immorality  that  beckoned  her. 

"I  couldn't  marry  you  yet,  of  course."  He  spoke 
with  a  grave  young  dignity,  terribly  touching  to  her. 
' '  We  could  wait  a  little,  we  'd  be  seeing  each  other  all 
the  time. ' '  The  thought  of  Mervyn  and  Nita  crossed 
him,  but  he  instantly  dismissed  them.  * '  Oh,  it  would 
be,  it  'd  be  simply — ! ' ' 

"Well,  then  we'd  certainly — we'd  know  better. 
No,  Alec — let  me  think." 

She  sat,  drawn  up  away  from  him,  looking  steadily 
to  the  far  side  of  the  moat.  She  tried  to  seek  refuge 
on  the  familiar  ground  of  her  "views."  If  she  at- 
tacked marriage  now,  to  him,  it  would  be  out  of  sheer 
virtue !  She  thought  of  the  affair  of  his  stepmother, 
but  that  was  too  near  him,  and  too  near  her:  she 
shrank  from  any  allusion  almost  as  wincingly  as  he 
did.  And  how  could  she  talk — talk — after  this? 


200  BRUTE  GODS 

Phrases  of  the  articles  she  had  written,  the  speeches 
she  had  made  at  meetings  of  "Women  Workers"  came 
to  her.  She  felt  ashamed  of  them.  They  were 
pedantic,  inky,  priggish,  absurd.  If  she  said  them 
now,  how  dreadfully  ashamed  she'd  be — and  it  would 
stop  him  loving  her,  she  knew  it  would !  He  took  her 
hand,  took  shyly  the  fingers  only. — "Marriage  a  gross 
advertisement  of  purely  private  relations."  Her 
thoughts  went  on.  "Because  two  people  wish  to  be 
bound  for  ever  in  a  moment  of  abnormal  excitement, 
that's  no  excuse  for  Society's  taking  a  base  advantage 
of  them. "  "  Husband  and  wife  can 't  be  lovers,  unless 
they're  terribly  unimaginative,  dull,  placid  people." 
"Economic  independence  of  women  the  real  solution." 
"Money  conditions  made  marriage,  and  change  of 
money  conditions  will  break  it." — Spectacled  phrases! 
How  watery  all  these  words  looked,  how  hollow  they 
sounded,  how  small  they  were  in  the  face  of  this 
great  thing  that  she  and  he  had  felt !  When  he  held 
her,  she'd  have  married  him  for  a  thousand  years, 
sooner  than  have  lost  him  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  "Ab- 
normal excitement" — as  if  a  pale  phrase  like  that 
came  near  it!  All  the  same  her  brain  would  keep 
beating  unconvinced,  beating  hard:  she  had  to  hear 
that  all  this  was  "glamour."  Well,  even  if  it  were, 
why  should  she  know?  She  wouldn't  know  now,  she 
wouldn't  spoil —  What  if  it  couldn 't  last ?  Perhaps 
it  would.  Anyhow,  she  didn't  care.  And  she 
wouldn't  say  a  word  to  him  .  .  .  theories  of  mar- 
riage. .  .  , 


DISCLOSURES  201 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?  "What  are  you  think- 
ing about  ? ' '  Alec,  suspecting  that  her  look  embraced 
more  than  him,  was  jealous.  He  quickened  to  her, 
burned  to  recall  her  to  himself.  They  were  losing 
time — terribly. 

"Oh,  that  I  was  born  a  little  too  late,  that's  all. 
Even  though  you  were  born  later!" 

"Do  come  to  me,  dear.    Please — Gillian — " 

"Not  now."  All  she  could  think,  then,  was  in  her 
wish  for  him  to  take  her  again,  but  the  very  strength 
of  the  wish  made  the  decision  of  her  refusal.  "No, 
not  now,  I  mean  it ! "  He  felt  her  little  nerve-ridden 
hand  quiver  on  his  protesting  mouth.  He  looked  at 
her,  lovingly  reproachful,  and  again  that  eager  dark 
tenderness  of  his  eyes  shot  through  her.  Ah,  she 
must  keep  him  now — any  way — just  for  a  little! 
"Alec!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone, 
astonishing  to  him.  "If  you  did  stop  loving  me,  I 
wouldn't  keep  you — I  wouldn't — not  if  you — " 
Tears  rushed  wantonly  on  her,  she  turned  away. 

"Why  should  we  think  about  what  won't  ever  hap- 
pen? Oh,  Gillian!"  He  took  her,  turning  her  to 
him,  with  a  violence  overpoweringly  sweet  to  the  re- 
laxing girl.  Her  eyes,  larger  and  softer  with  their 
tears,  were  lovelier  to  him  than  ever.  "You  mustn't 
talk  like  this,  you  mustn't — you  mustn't  think — " 

"Well!"  She  broke  from  her  yielding  to  his  kiss. 
"It's  a  pity  I'm  not  seventeen.  I  shouldn't  talk  like 
that  then,  and  you'd  be  fairly  caught!"  Her  laugh 
was  insecure, 


202  BRUTE  GODS 

"I  want  to  be!" 

"Oh,  Alec — please.  I  said  not,  before.  You  don't 
care  what  I  say!" 

"But  why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  She  was  afraid  of  his  not 
wanting  to  be  with  her  again,  not  wanting  it  quite 
so  much.  "We  must  go.  Tell  me:  when  can  you 
come  to  London?" 

' '  Oh,  as  soon  as — in  a  day  or  two,  I  '11  come ! ' ' 

"Here's  my  address."  She  gave  him  a  card. 
"You'll  telephone?"  She  blushed  deeply,  she  was 
heavily  struck  by  shame.  "I  will,  I  will,"  she  told 
herself,  rebelling. 

' '  Yes,  could  I  come  tomorrow  ? "  To  Alec  the  blush 
meant  a  new  lustre  and  flash  for  her  eyes. 

"No;  the  end  of  the  week.  'Tomorrow'!"  She 
teased  his  comically  instant  dejection.  "I  oughtn't 
to  see  you  there  at  all!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  because  my  great-great-great-grandmother 
tells  me  not  to!  I  don't  care,  though.  You  aren't 
sentimental  about  money,  Alec,  are  you?"  she  added, 
determined  to  resist  her  ancestress  further.  She 
leaned  capriciously,  and  gave  him  a  light  unexpected 
kiss.  "Was  it  yesterday  we  first  met?  At  least  our 
acquaintance  has  'ripened  rapidly,'  you'll  admit." 
Her  eyes  went  shimmering.  Alec  was  reminded  of 
Father  Collett's  vivid  changes  of  mood. 

"And  we  are  engaged,  aren't  we,  Gillian?" 

"Oh,  we'll  talk  about  that  next  time!"    Then: 


DISCLOSURES  203 

"Look  up!"  she  said,  in  a  low  distinct  tone  of  no 

emotion. 
He  looked.    The  wall  behind  them  was  surmounted 

by  the  incensed  face  of  his  father. 

"What  is  the  meaning,  sir,  of  this  performance?" 
"I'll    go,"    Alec    whispered,    pressing    her    hand. 

"Wait  for  me;  please  wait." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GILLIAN  did  not  ponder  her  interruption 
of  the  altercation  between  father  and  son: 
it  sprang  from  her  sense  of  indignity  in 
being  left  alone  ' '  down  there, ' '  from  her  more  urgent 
sense  of  Alec's  inexperience  needing  her  protection, 
and  from  the  rapid-growing  violence  of  her  impatience. 
After  three  minutes  it  seemed  as  though  he  and  his 
father  would  go  on  talking  for  ever.  Some  of  the 
first  words  she  could  hear :  "Go  away ! ' '  and  ' ' You'd 
better  not!"  from  Alec:  "I  will  not  have  it,  sir!" 
then,  less  distinctly,  as  they  moved  from  the  moat: 
"...  any  more  immorality,  in  my  family."  "If 
you  don 't  go,  I  '11. "...  Then  only  their  voices  reached 
her  strained  hearing,  and  the  moments  lengthened. 
Infinite  values  wavered  in  them.  .  .  .  She  must  leave 
that  place,  she'd  be  sunk  there.  As  she  got  up,  her 
consciousness  snapped  under  a  sudden  stroke  of  black, 
the  ground  swam  against  her ;  she  held  herself  tightly, 
driving  her  feet  down.  Then,  released,  she  gained 
the  steps  of  the  moat,  rapidly  climbing  them,  check- 
ing herself  when  the  wall  no  longer  concealed  her. 

Mr.  Glaive,  who  stood  facing  the  moat,  saw  her 
first.  He  stared,  blinked,  broke  the  sentence  he  was 
in,  broke  the  change  of  posture  that  he  had  been 
about  to  make.  He  held  ground,  wary  at  once.  Alec, 
turning,  exclaimed  with  dropping  mouth. 

204 


DISCLOSURES  205 

' '  Mr.  Glaive. ' '  Gillian  spoke  at  once,  not  looking  at 
Alec.  "  Could  you  give  me  a  lift  back  to  Malstowe? 
If  you'd  be  so  kind—?" 

Glaive,  annoyed  that  he  had  not  done  so  before, — 
it  would  have  been  the  correct  thing, — raised  his  hat, 
elaborating  the  gesture.  "I  am  at  your  service,  of 
course."  He  was  delighted  by  his  own  restraint,  by 
the  fine  pitch  of  his  formality:  the  word  "breeding" 
caressed  him. 

"Thank  you  so  much.  I  saw  you  had  your  car. 
If  I  walked  back  I'm  afraid  I  might  be  late.  I'm 
meeting  the  Burkes,  you  see." 

"Gillian!"  Alec  broke  in  with  an  indignant  vehe- 
mence that  pressed  on  her  hard.  "Won't  you  tell 
him  about  us,  why  won't  you — ?" 

' '  Did  you  ride  or  walk  here,  Alec  1 ' '  she  asked  him. 

"I  can't  tell  him — not  properly.  I  thought  you'd 
come  to  help  me!" 

"Motor-cycle,"  said  Mr.  Glaive,  with  a  sideways 
glance  at  her. 

"Where  did  you  leave  it,  then?" 

"Gillian,  I  don't —  He  doesn't  understand,  he's 
got  it  all  wrong,  I  do  think  you  might — " 

"I  don't  see  any  cycle."     She  looked  inquiringly. 

"He  left  it  at  'The  Seven  Mariners.'  "  Mr. 
Glaive  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
tavern. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right.  As  your  father  is  be- 
ing good  enough  to  take  me —  It's  a  two-seater,  isn't 
it?  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I'm  rather  late  already.  Do 
you  mind — ?" 


206  BRUTE  GODS 

Alee  relapsed,  confounded,  as  they  walked  toward 
the  car.  How  could  she  ?  What  did  she  mean  ?  Ah, 
she  would  tell  his  father  when  they  were  driving,  that 
was  it,  of  course !  What  would  she  say  ?  He  wanted 
to  be  there,  he  ought  to  be  there.  It  was  awful,  being 
left  out  like  this,  it  seemed  a  sort  of  trick.  What 
would  she  say  ?  He  must  know — 

"Well,  Alec,  will  you  crank  her  up?" 

The  boy  started,  he  looked  at  Gillian  in  appeal, 
but  she  would  not  catch  his  eye.  ''Oh,  then  it's  not 
a  self-starter,"  she  said. 

"No;  quite  an  old  car.  Does  for  rough  work  about 
the  country,  though." 

Mr.  Glaive's  tone  was  guardedly  good  humoured. 
"A  clever  minx,"  he  thought.  He  would  like  to 
tell  her  so,  in  the  right  way,  in  a  man-of-the-world 
way.  She  was  certainly  pretty. 

Alec  cranked.  The  operation  spelt  out  the  memory 
of  Matcham's  meeting  for  him,  spelt  it  slowly,  pain- 
fully. He  wrestled  with  that  impertinent  recall  to 
dead  emotions.  But  had  his  father  won  again,  now? 
No,  he  hadn't,  he  never  could!  It  wasn't  right, 
though,  that  he  should  be  taking  Gillian,  it  looked  as 
though.  .  .  .  Why  had  she  done  that?  "If  he  hadn't 
come,  I  should  be  with  her  alone  still,  we  could  have 
walked  back  to  Malstowe  together."  Alec  kindled 
against  his  father,  but  in  a  moment  his  anger  dis- 
appeared in  the  saturation  of  his  loss.  She  was  leav- 
ing him.  If  only  he  could  make  his  father  under- 
stand, or  if  only  his  father  would  go,  not  be  there, 
that  was  all  he  asked,  he  'd  forgive  him  anything  then. 


DISCLOSURES  207 

Absorbed  as  he  was,  adolescent  as  he  was,  he  did  not 
for  a  moment  reflect  on  or  take  pride  in  the  girl's 
spirit,  her  address.  She  puzzled  him,  and  he  was  al- 
most resentful. 

Gillian  waved  her  hand,  smiled:  they  drove  off. 
His  gaze  clung  to  her  slight  shoulders, "her  fez-shaped 
hat  with  its  blowing  tassel,  blowing  with  the  curl  of 
her  hair,  her  arm  that  rested  along  the  edge  of  the 
car,  her  hand  that  just  showed,  but  now  he  had  lost 
it.  His  father  ought  not  to  be  sitting  by  her,  so  near 
as  that,  nobody  ought!  She  receded,  leaving  him  in 
exile.  He  must  be  with  her,  always,  he  could  not 
bear  this,  her  absence  rent  him,  how  could  it  be 
borne?  That  parting  seemed  to  be  for  ever,  he  felt 
that  it  was  for  ever,  he  was  convinced,  hopelessly,  of 
an  eternal  severance  between  them.  Absolute  cer- 
tainty of  seeing  her  again  was  what  he  demanded; 
anything  less  than  that  was  tragically  insecure.  And 
there  were  a  hundred  things  that  could  happen  to 
cut  them  apart.  Suppose  she  met  with  some  acci- 
dent, suppose  he  did —  He  wished  he  had  not  taken 
Mervyn's  motor-cycle,  he  must  ride  it  very  carefully. 
How  distant  she  was  now.  Could  it  be  so  lately  that 
he  had — could  he  have  ever  held  so  close  that  distant 
figure  ?  When  she  was  with  him  she  had  taken  off  her 
hat :  he  could  not  remember  when,  could  not  remember 
her  doing  it  ...  her  hair.  .  .  . 

Something  fluttered  from  the  car,  something  white. 
Paper,  it  looked  like  paper  ...  a  message  from  her. 
He  ran.  It  might  blow  away,  blow  out  to  sea,  be 
lost.  Everything  seemed  like  that — in  danger.  In  a 


208  BRUTE  GODS 

fever  of  doubt  and  insecurity  he  raced  on:  he  couldn't 
see  the  white  thing,  he  was  not  even  sure  where  it 
had  dropped.  It  might  be  that  everything  depended 
on  his  finding  it.  He  felt  more  and  more  certain  that 
if  he  didn't  find  it  he  would  never  see  Gillian  again. 
His  present  loss  of  her  outlined  all  her  values,  it 
deepened  them,  set  him  fast  in  them.  Sudden  as  it 
had  come,  and  stronger  for  another's  part  in  it,  it 
blew  cold  on  the  boy's  molten  metal  which  it  hardened 
to  a  weight  that  stayed.  He  ran  unslackingly,  with 
searching  eyes.  .  .  .  What  if  she  had  been  snatched 
from  him?  Suppose  his  father  were  talking  to  her 
now,  arguing  with  her,  trying  to  keep  her  away,  to 
get  her  to  promise?  Then  he  would  kill  him.  There 
would  be  no  difficulty  then,  any  way  would  do, 
wouldn't  matter — not  if  his  father  had  done  that. 
But  Gillian  wouldn't  promise,  she  couldn't.  .  .  .He 
insisted  on  this,  f alteringly,  feeling  that  he  ought  to 
have  no  doubt. 

There  it  was,  the  white  thing!  To  the  side  of  the 
road,  not  far  ahead,  against  a  telegraph-pole.  Alec 
ran  faster.  But  it  wasn't  paper.  .  .  .  Ah!  he  under- 
stood, she  had  let  it  drop  for  him,  so  that  he  would 
have  something  that  belonged  to  her,  so  that  he  would 
know  that  she — what  they  called  a  "token."  He 
thought  of  a  Latin  phrase  of  his  recent  schooldays: 
"pignus  amoris" — "pledge  of  love" — a  pledge.  He 
was  exalted  by  delight  and  joy.  This  was  a  message 
better  than  writing — it  was  just  the  assurance  he 
craved — something  of  hers — for  him. 

He   halted   by  the   telegraph-pole,   stooped,   half 


DISCLOSURES  209 

blinded,  reaching  down  with  hands  that  tingled  and 
shook.  In  a  passion  of  tender  reverence,  he  took  the 
token  up.  It  was  his  father's  handkerchief,  a  par- 
ticularly nice  clean  silk  one,  for  Sunday. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WILFRED  VAIL,  half  an  hour  later,  was  ar- 
rested in  the  middle  of  one  of  his  leisurely 
engagements  by  the  plugging  of  a  motor- 
cycle. The  sound  advanced,  turned  up  the  longer 
one  of  the  two  converging  drives  that  led  to  his 
house.  Vail's  wide  nostrils  gave  a  slight  brisk  flutter 
of  expectation.  A  new  engine  for  him  to  examine: 
excellent.  He  dispatched,  shortly,  the  affair  he  was 
in.  A  new  engine:  he  could  tell  that  at  once,  for 
the  voice  of  each  motor  of  the  neighbourhood  was  dis- 
tinguishable to  him.  He  did  not  speculate  for  a  mo- 
ment about  this  particular  motor-cycle's  accidental 
human  attachment. 

Alec  was  slowing  down  at  the  end  of  the  drive  as 
his  friend  emerged  from  the  familiar  little  one-story 
annex  which  stood  modestly  out  from  the  low  white- 
brick  house,  enhancing  its  air  of  pleasant  amplitude. 

""Why,  it's  you,  Alec!  Where  did  you  get  the 
cycle?" 

"Oh,  it's  Mervyn's." 

"You've  never  taken  it  here  before."  Vail's  tone 
was  somewhat  aggrieved.  "Let's  have  a  look  at  it. 
Lord,  what  a  state  it's  in!  You  can't  keep  a  motor- 
cycle any  cleaner  than  you  keep  your  fountain-pen. 
What  a  messy  person  you  are !  I  shall  have  to  spend 
most  of  the  afternoon  on  this."  He  took  his  spec- 

210 


DISCLOSURES  211 

tacles  off,  wiped  his  face,  and  looked  reproachfully 
at  Alec  with  his  pale  large  blue  eyes  that  shone  watery 
in  the  sun.  "You  aren't  looking  well,  either,"  he 
said,  a  shade  severely.  "Come  on,  for  God's  sake 
let's  get  out  of  this  glare. — What  have  you  been  up 
to?" 

"Oh,  nothing  particular — "  Alec  leaned  the  cycle 
against  the  wall. 

Wilfred  remembered  the  stepmother's  elopement; 
the  motor-cycle  had  quite  put  it  out  of  his  mind. 
Of  course  that  accounted  for  the  odd  look  Alec  had 
had  under  his  scrutiny.  They  hadn't  met  since. 
Poor  boy,  it  must  have  been  a  shock — of  course — dis- 
turbing. He  took  his  arm,  with  intimate  pressure. 
"  I  'd  been  expecting  you  now  you  were  home  again, ' ' 
he  said.  "I've  been  thinking  about  you  a  lot,  Alec. 
You  know  that. ' ' 

The  boy  hardly  heard  him.  He  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  strangeness  of  being  here  in  this  known  place, 
with  this  known  friend.  It  was  life  in  the  past ;  some 
self  of  his  that  was  gone  had  been  in  that 
life.  .  .  .  He  was  remote:  yet  all  the  while  the  force 
of  Wilfred,  the  force  of  the  scene,  were  insistent, 
persuading  him  of  the  continuity  of  the  time  spent 
in  that  place,  in  that  friendship,  since  and  now.  It 
was  as  though  the  reality,  the  existence  of  Gillian 
were  being  challenged.  She  hadn't  been  here.  It 
was  like  the  playing  of  some  stratagem  upon  him. 
Alec's  new  eyes  unsurely  disputed  the  sceptical,  in- 
different, yet  positive  claim  that  these  habitual  vistas 
made  on  his  vision. 


212  BRUTE  GODS 

They  went  into  the  house  together,  still  silent.  Wil- 
fred sat  down  and  began  rolling  himself  a  very  thin 
cigarette;  the  tip  of  his  tongue  showed  red  against 
his  beard  as  he  licked  the  paper.  There  was  the  same 
picture  of  Hamlet  with  the  skull,  in  its  long  frame 
.  .  .  that  picture  seen  so  often  through  poised  clouds 
of  tobacco  smoke,  at  winter  midnights.  .  .  .  New 
Year's  Eve.  Since  Alec  was  fifteen  he  had  spent 
New  Year's  with  Wilfred.  Memories  drove  up  thick, 
the  boy  stared  at  them.  It  was  inexplicable  that  he 
should  have  never  even  seen  her  then,  and  that  yet, 
now,  he  was  here. 

"Poor  Alec,"  Wilfred  was  thinking,  "this  thing 
has  evidently  hit  him  pretty  hard."  "Will  you 
smoke?"  he  said. 

"Thanks."  Alec  took  a  yellow  Russian  cigarette 
from  the  extended  case.  "I  haven't  smoked  today." 

"Why  this  outburst  of  virtue?" 

Alec  flushed  under  his  friend's  mild  incurious 
glance.  "I  didn't  happen  to  think  of  it,"  he  said 
truthfully. 

Looking  out  of  the  window,  he  was  caught  by  the 
glint  of  the  conservatory  roof  in  the  sun. — Frippie's 
grapes. — Another  thing  he  had  not  happened  to  think 
of.  Disconcerted,  he  shut  down  against  Frippie.  He 
wished  he  had  not  kissed  her. 

"I  say,  Alec."  Wilfred  saw  that  there  would  be 
no  ease  between  them  until  the  matter  came  to  surface. 
"There's  nothing  I  can  say  or  do  to  help,  of  course, 
but  I  feel  with  you.  You  understand  that,  don't 
you?" 


DISCLOSURES  218 

"But  how — ?  I  don't  see."  Alec  blushed  more 
deeply.  "I  don't  see  how  on  earth  you  can  know!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,  Suffolk  gossip!  Why,  things 
get  about  in  five  minutes — " 

"  'Five  minutes'!"  Alec  echoed  him  in  consterna- 
tion. He  had  grotesque  visions  of  spies  and  couriers. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it  if  you  don't  want  to." 
Wilfred  looked  at  his  watch.  "Lunch  will  be  soon. 
Lunch,  and  stout.  Good  stout,  too,  since  the  war 
really  ended." 

"'I  want  to  talk  about  it.  That's  why  I  came. 
Have  you  seen  her?  I  didn't — " 

"  'Seen  her'?"  Wilfred's  mathematical  mind 
tried  to  cope  with  the  question.  ' '  I  suppose  you  mean 
since — " 

"No,  no;  at  any  time?" 

"Ah!"  It  flashed  upon  Wilfred  Vail  that  what 
Alec  meant  was,  had  he  ever  seen  Mrs.  Glaive  so 
comport  herself  as  to  suggest  that  she  might  be  a 
light  woman.  Really,  Alec  was  very  elliptical.  "No, 
I  never  have,"  he  replied  decisively.  "I  shouldn't 
be  much  of  a  judge,  though." 

' '  Oh,  I  thought  you  must  have — because  of  what  you 
said  about  feeling  with  me.  Look  here,  Wilfred," 
he  went  on  hurriedly,  ' '  I  don 't  know  who  told  you  or 
what  they  said,  but  it's  all  absolutely  different  from 
anything  I've  ever  felt  before — absolutely." 

( '  Yes,  yes. ' '  Wilfred  pulled  his  chair  round  to  the 
boy.  He  took  his  hand.  "I  know.  But  these  things 
— one  feels  them  most  awfully  at  the  time,  but  after 
a  while  one  adapts  oneself.  It  becomes  less  important, 


214  BRUTE  GODS 

you  see,  by  degrees  one  feels  it  less ;  and  much  sooner 
than  you  could  have  believed,  you  get  over  it. ' ' 

"I  never  shall!" 

"Naturally  that's  how  it  seems,  now.  But — well, 
you'll  see.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  keep 
your  mind  off  it,  all  you  can." 

' '  Keep  my  mind  off  it ! " 

"Certainly.  Thinking  about  it  won't  help.  The 
thing's  done.  "Worrying  over  it  won't  bring  her 
back." 

"Oh,  you  heard  about  everything."  Alec  winced. 
"But  I'll  get  her  back.  I'll  go  to  her." 

"I  shouldn't.  After  all,  that's  your  father's  af- 
fair, and  he — " 

"It's  not  his  affair!  I  won't  stand  him  interfer- 
ing, I've  made  up  my  mind!" 

Wilfred  Vail  stared  at  him.  "Those  modern 
ideas,"  he  gently  deprecated.  "Surely — I  may  be 
dreadfully  conservative — but  your  father  being  mar- 
ried to  her,  you  see — " 

"Oh!  Good  Lord,  that.  Why,  that  wasn't  it  at 
all!" 

"What  the  devil  is  it,  then?" 

"I  thought,  when  you  said — I  thought  you'd  heard 
somehow  about — about  Gillian." 

"Gillian?  Who  in  heaven's  name  is  Gillian? — 
Well,  I'll  be — "  he  noted  Alec's  expression.  "I'll  be 
damned  if  you're  not  in  love!  So  that's  all  it  is! 
That's  all  that's  wrong  with  you.  My  dear  child — 
my  dear — "  Wilfred  leaned  his  head  well  back, 
and  laughed  loudly.  "Alec  in  love!"  He  gurgled. 


DISCLOSURES  215 

His  mirth  shook  his  beard,  shook  his  spectacles. 
"Really,  Alec — "  He  gasped,  straightening  himself. 
"I  suppose  I  ought  not  to,  it's  partly  because  I  know 
you  so  well,  you  see."  Alec's  look  of  utter  disgust 
was  too  much  for  him,  he  leaned  back  again,  com- 
mitting himself  fully  to  the  irrepressible  hilarity  of 
the  situation.  "My  dear  Alec — "  He  wiped  his 
eyes,  recovering.  "You  mustn't  look  so  indignant, 
it  makes  me  worse.  There's  something  about  a  man 
in  love,  you  see,  that's  irresistibly  funny,  just  as 
there  is  about  a  man  with  a  bilious  attack.  You 
mightn't  think  it,  but  I  really  can  sympathize  with 
you.  I've  had  bilious  attacks." 

"You've  never  really  been  in  love,  you  can't  have. 
You  can't  have  cared — properly — " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have.  Why,  once,  that  time  when  I  was 
up  at  the  Music  College,  I  wrote  verses  to  one  of  them. 
I  went  further,  I  bought  her  a  wrist-watch,  used  to 
hang  about  jewellers'  shops  for  hours.  It's  true  I 
thought  better  of  it  and  kept  the  wrist-watch  for 
myself.  Here  it  is!  I  wish  you'd  been  in  London 
with  me  then.  You  missed  a  lot  of  entertainment." 

"I  shouldn't  have  laughed  at  you!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would.  It's  too  late  now.  Now  I 
intend  to  be  thoroughly  middle-aged.  Much  more 
convenient.  Since  I  took  up  with  a  beard  and  specta- 
cles, Mrs.  Vail  is  frequently  mistaken  for  my  wife. 
Come  on,  let's  go  and  wash.  There's  no  bell.  Mrs. 
Vail  has  gone  gadding  off  to  Bournemouth."  He 
not  only  always  alluded  to  his  mother  as  "Mrs.  Vail," 
but  he  so  addressed  her.  It  was  a  part  of  the  for- 


216  BRUTE  GODS 

mality  that  kept  the  corners  of  their  domestic  life 
rounded  and  smooth.  "She's  taken  Mrs.  Leech  with 
her  and  given  the  others  a  holiday.  I'm  grubbing 
along  with  the  boy.  Just  what  I  like,  as  you  know. 
The  ritual  of  the  household  is  thoroughly  wasteful 
both  of  time  and  labour.  It's  peculiarly  the  sphere 
of  woman,  and  in  it  she  shows  peculiarly  well  her 
inherent  lack  of  method  and  love  of  display.  The 
barbaric,  as  opposed  to  the  businesslike.  A  whole- 
some reminder  for  you,  my  dear  boy.  Come  on.  Tim- 
othy will  have  put  something  cold  on  the  table.  You 
can  tell  me  all  about  her  while  we're  getting 
fed." 

Alec's  resentment  cooled  as  they  walked  up  the 
familiar  stairway.  Those  lurking  influences  kept 
creeping  back  on  him.  .  .  .  There  was  Wilfred's  bed, 
without  sheets,  as  always,  and  with  the  pillows  piled 
high  on  account  of  his  nervous  heart,  so  that  it 
shouldn't  "  drop  beats."  They  had  sat  together  on 
that  bed,  watching  the  dawn  come.  ' '  The  dawn  with 
silver-sandalled  feet, ' '  Wilfred  had  quoted.  Alec  had 
never  seen  that  there  was  anything  in  poetry  before. 
How  was  it  that  Wilfred  couldn't  understand  now? 
The  boy,  as  he  washed  his  hands  and  face,  wondered. 
It  struck  him  that  Wilfred  and  his  experiences  with 
Wilfred  were  really  much  closer  to  what  he  felt  now 
than  anything  else  in  his  life.  For  it  was  Wilfred 
who  had  first  touched  his  sense  of  beauty,  first  made 
it  conscious,  given  him  perception,  shown  him  the 
romantic  urgency  of  visible  things.  No  one  had  in- 
fluenced him  anything  like  as  much,  before  Gillian 


DISCLOSURES  217 

came.  He  had  brought  things  to  life — words  of 
poetry,  the  look  of  the  night  sky,  the  pulse  of  music, 
everything  that  she  now  contained,  that  passed  now  in 
intenser  flow  to  him  through  her,  his  only  medium.  .  .  . 

"Why  have  you  given  up  playing,  Wilfred?" 

"Oh,  you  can't  play  without  practice.  I  don't 
want  to  degenerate  into  an  amateur.  And  you  know 
my  poor  dear  health  won 't  let  me  be  an  artist. ' ' 

"Are  you  really  interested  in  all  this  motoring 
stuff?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  Hurry  up.  What  with  your 
being  in  love  and  not  getting  my  lunch  I  shall  begin  to 
blaspheme  horridly  in  a  moment.  Do  dry  your  hands. 
I  never  saw  anything  like  the  laboured  inadequacy 
of  the  way  you  pat  them.  I  wish  I  could  make  a 
first-rate  mechanic  of  you,  Alec.  When  Teddy — my 
good  doctor — told  me  without  any  beating  about  the 
bush  that  if  I  didn't  chuck  my  sedentary  nerve-ex- 
hausting life  I'd  go  off  in  a  year,  that  settled  it.  It's 
a  mistake,  physically,  to  be  born  when  your  father's 
nearly  seventy."  He  took  Alec's  arm  and  led  him 
out  of  the  room.  "Why,  you  know  the  only  decent 
thing  I  ever  composed — that  Mass  they  played  at  the 
Oratory — what  did  that  mean?  No  proper  sleep  for 
a  month — I  got  so  that  I  couldn't  stir  out  of  the  house 
without — you  know."  He  shivered.  "Teddy  sug- 
gested some  open-air  hobby — hard  physical  work  and 
not  a  hint  of  nerve-strain.  Wise  man.  Now  I  sleep 
nine  hours  every  night  and  have  the  nerves  of  a 
bricklayer.  Try  the  same  cure,  it  might  work  with 
you.  Ah.  Lunch."  They  sat  down. 


218  BRUTE  GODS 

"Yes,  I  know.  It  was  extraordinary  how  you 
changed  everything,  so  suddenly." 

"Oh,  I'd  always  had  a  sneaking  interest  in 
mechanics.  Music  and  mechanics  are  quite  near  to- 
gether, really."  He  deftly  carved  the  cold  roast 
beef.  "It's  simply  the  practical  instead  of  the  emo- 
tional application  of  the  same  forces.  Not  so  difficult, 
Alec,  not  such  a  wrench  to  exchange  counterpoint  and 
trilling  on  sixths  for  cardan  shafts  and  cantilever 
springs.  There's  mathematical  instinct  comes  in  for 
both,  but  in  mechanics  it's  entirely  detached,  it's  cold 
and  clear  and  impersonal :  it  leaves  you  alone.  Music 
wants  your  life-blood,  damn  her,  music  won't  be  con- 
tent without  raping  you  body  and  soul.  Too  much 
of  a  good  thing,  at  least  for  me  it  is. — Do  you  know 
why  musicians  are  nearly  always  cold  and  sensual? 
They  haven 't  anything  left  over  for  love. ' ' 

"That  must  be  why  you  don't  understand."  Alec 
took  his  chance. 

"Don't  understand  what?" 

"About  me — and — " 

"Oh,  I  see.    You  and — what  was  her  name?" 

"Gillian."    Alec  bent  his  bead  over  his  plate. 

"Ah,  yes.  That's  to  the  point.  Nature  or  Life  or 
whatever  you  choose  to  call  it  is  playing  a — well,  let's 
call  it  a  Fugue  on  you.  You're  in  the  score ;  the  score 
is  you,  in  fact." 

"And  her." 

"Oh,  of  course  one  has  to  have  some  sort  of  a 
theme !  The  point  is  that  musicians  aren't  often  used 


DISCLOSURES  219 

like  that.  It 's  a  ease  of  two  of  a  trade,  you  see ;  trade- 
jealousy  comes  in.  When  a  musician  does  fall  in  love, 
he  does  bad  work  at  once;  sheer  spite  on  Nature's 
part,  I  call  it.  I  know  when  I  was  making  that  par- 
ticular kind  of  fool  of  myself,  my  work  went  to  pieces. 
We  don't  make  good  lovers,  either,  from  the  woman's 
point  of  view.  They  like  the  usual  man — the  Philis- 
tine." 

Alec  resolved  to  be  unimpeachably  normal,  he  hoped 
he  was  a  Philistine. 

" There's  no  doubt  an  artist  ought  to  avoid  mar- 
riage. What  a  fate  for  a  man  of  genius!  Bread- 
winner for  wife  and  babes ! ' ' 

''Well,  I'm  not  an  artist." 

"Luckily  marriage  isn't  practicable  for  you  yet, 
Alec." 

"Not  at  once,  perhaps."  The  observation  annoyed 
the  boy  extremely.  "It  may  be — soon." 

"  'Soon'!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you're  nineteen.  And  you  aren't  either 
a  prince  or  a  peasant." 

"I  could  be  engaged,  anyhow." 

"I  hope  you're  not  going  to  tell  me  you  are." 

"Well,  not  exactly.  I  shall  know  when  I  see  her 
again. ' ' 

"I  suppose  she's  one  of  those  young  things  one 
sees  about  with  hair  in  tails  down  their  backs  ?  Thin 
tails  of  hair  and  tight  backs  and  school  straw  hats 
with  monogrammed  ribbons."  He  groaned. 


220  BRUTE  GODS 

"She  isn't  young.  Not  like  that."  Alec  felt  ex- 
tremely glad  that  she  wasn  't.  '  She 's  twenty-six, ' '  he 
announced  proudly. 

"What!  Well,  she  ought  to  know  better,  then. 
Her  age  doesn't  at  all  reassure  me,  Alec.  In  fact, 
I  find  her  age  rather  alarming.  Everything  depends 
on  her,  of  course.  She  might  go  kidnapping  you. 
.  .  .  Has  she  money?  Who  is  she?" 

"She's  Father  Collett's  niece." 

"Worse  and  worse.  All  the  Colletts  are  well  off, 
I  believe.  You've  taken  away  some  of  my  appetite, 
Alec.  Yours,  I  notice,  is  fairly  hearty.  A  sign  of 
hope,  perhaps." 

"I  never  knew  you  were  against  marriage." 

"Why  should  I  be?  I'm  not  married,  and  very 
grateful  I  am  for  the  immense  advantages  that  gives 
me.  I  regard  bachelorhood  as  the  privilege  of  the 
level-headed  few.  As  long  as  marriage  isn't  com- 
pulsory—  I'm  very  much  against  marriage  for  you, 
naturally.  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  I'm  fond  of  you, 
Alec."  His  eyes  lighted  with  that  peculiar  sincerity 
and  singleness  of  affection  often  found  in  men  who 
are  not  romantically  controlled  and  who  take  the  com- 
pensating drive  of  their  sensuality  too  easily  and 
openly  to  be  harassed  or  embittered  by  it.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  be  grabbed  by  a  girl — not  yet,  anyhow. 
Later  on,  of  course — well,  it 's  one  of  those  unpleasant 
things  you  have  to  expect,  when  the  time  comes  " 

"But  we'd  always  be  friends — just  the  same." 

"Some  hundreds  of  millions  of  people  have  made 
that  remark  before  you,  dear  boy,  and  found  out  their 


DISCLOSURES  221 

mistake."  Wilfred  finished  his  glass  of  stout.  "Of 
course  there's  one  advantage  in  marrying  a  girl  with 
money.  You  can  afford  to  live  separately  later  on. 
I'm  quite  sure  that  hadn't  occurred  to  you — " 

"No,  it  hadn't!" 

' '  I  thought  not.  Be  grateful  to  me,  then,  for  a  new 
idea.  Let  me  see. — Yes,  take  some  tart,  I'll  go  on  to 
cheese.  Twenty-six — nineteen.  I  don't  think  she'll 
do  it.  If  she  were  over  thirty,  she  might.  Hardly 
at  twenty-six.  No,  she'd  have  to  be  over  thirty  or 
under  twenty  for  you  to  be  in  any  real  danger.  I 
feel  better  now.  I'll  have  another  glass  of  stout." 

In  Wilfred's  Study  afterwards,  Alec  came  tenta- 
tively to  the  main  purpose  of  his  visit.  The  approach 
was  difficult,  because  Wilfred  asked  none  of  the  usual 
questions  about  Gillian.  Alec  was  piqued  because  his 
friend  betrayed  not  the  smallest  curiosity  about  her 
appearance  or  character,  did  not  inquire  where  they 
had  met,  how,  or  how  often.  Instead,  he  talked  of 
the  coming  Elections,  he  made  Alec  tell  him  of 
Matcham's  meeting  and  Mr.  Glaive's  intervention. 
He  had  heard  fantastic  and  contradictory  rumours 
that  he  was  anxious  to  be  able  to  explain  and  correct. 
He  spoke  at  length  on  the  threatened  economic  revo- 
lution. 

"These  people  can't  win,"  he  declared.  "All  they 
can  do  is  to  get  higher  wages,  but  anything  that  cuts 
deeper  than  that — no.  I've  mixed  a  lot  with  work- 
ing people  lately,  here  and  in  London.  When  it  comes 
to  any  scheme  for  taking  away  the  money  and  power 
from  those  who  have  it,  they  get  suspicious  at  once. 


222  BRUTE  GODS 

They  feel  certain  they  won't  get  the  money,  you  see, 
and  their  idea  is  that  the  agitators  will.  Did  you 
hear  what  old  Bob  Haken  said  to  Matcham?  'Ah, 
'bor,  an'  yu'll  spend  it,  tu;  du  yu  wouldn'  goo 
a-gittin'  on  it  outer  them.  Better  his  owd  lordship 
had  it  than  yu.'  That's  it  exactly."  He  spoke  with 
satisfaction,  he  was  conservative  to  the  bone,  though 
without  a  single  one  of  the  conservative  illusions.  His 
was  the  unshakeable  conservatism  of  the  sceptic. 

Alec,  in  spite  of  the  divided  mind  that  he  brought 
to  his  recital  of  events  on  the  Green,  could  not  help 
being  struck  by  Wilfred's  evident  distaste  for 
Matcham.  When  he  came  to  the  phrase  that  had 
so  obstinately  lodged  in  his  brain,  his  friend  caught 
him  up. 

"  'Brute  gods,'  "  he  repeated,  shortly  and  coldly. 
"No  doubt.  And  no  doubt  he  puts  up  better  ones — 
in  his  mind.  What's  the  good  of  that  to  the  world? 
Once  let  him  and  the  other  fools  get  started  on  the 
practical  construction  work,  and  their  new  gods  will 
either  dance  off  into  mist  or  they'll  change  and  be 
just  as  'brutish'  as  the  old  ones." 

"I  say — "  Alec  felt  that  this  interruption  had  re- 
lieved him  from  the  obligation  of  continuing  his  ac- 
count. "I  didn't  tell  you  that — I  mean  to  say 
Gillian's  going  back  to  London  tonight." 

' '  Oh,  is  she  ?  I  'm  rather  sorry.  These  things  often 
last  longer  when  there's  separation.  Much  better 
bring  it  to  a  head  at  once.  The  amount  of  energy 
wasted  on  this  'reconstruction'  talk  makes  me  sick. 
All  any  sensible  man  needs  to  do  is  to  take  condi- 


DISCLOSURES  223 

tions  as  they  are  and  make  what  he  can  of  them.  He 
can  break  the  rules  if  necessary,  but  he  won't  waste 
his  time  trying  to  alter  them  or  talking  about  break- 
ing them,  either." 

"Well,  that  was  all  my  stepmother  did — broke  the 
rules — " 

Alec  strove,  bewildered. — Pieces  of  a  puzzle  that 
wouldn't  fit — all  this,  and  the  assertive  memories  of 
the  place,  of  Wilfred:  while  outside  of  it  all  was  his 
determination  for  Gillian,  like  a  sort  of  hard  funnel 
through  which  everything  that  came  to  his  mind  had 
to  go. 

"My  dear  boy," — Wilfred  had  paused — "you  know 
me  well  enough  to  know  that  I'm  not  morally  in- 
dignant about  Mrs.  Glaive.  I'm  only  sorry  for  the 
break  as  it  affects  you,  just  as  I  should  be  sorry  if 
you  were  hurt  by  any  other  natural  accident.  Where 
you  have  marriage  you  have  the  other  thing.  It's 
curious  when  you  think  of  it," — he  stared  medita- 
tively, stroking  his  beard — "how  much  finer,  as  a 
word,  'adultery'  is  than  'marriage.'  Well.  I'm  no 
more  indignant  with  the  one  than  I  am  with  the  other. 
Take  the  world  as  it  is,  Alec,  take  the  world  as  it  is." 

He  leaned  back,  profoundly  unmoral  in  his  com- 
plete and  impartial  acceptance  of  the  moralities  to- 
gether with  every  one  of  their  logical  implications. 
He  had  spoken  in  utter  sincerity,  too,  of  "breaking 
the  rules, ' '  out  of  an  individualism  which  struck  from 
the  same  root  as  his  conservatism:  an  individualism 
that  was  prepared,  on  need,  to  run  full  tilt  at  any 
law  or  any  convention,  without  abating  politic  and 


224  BRUTE  GODS 

general  support  of  law  and  convention  by  one  jot. 

' '  I  don 't  quite  know  when  I  shall  be  able  to  see  her 
again,  of  course."  Alec  carried  off  the  observation 
by  striking  a  match. 

"No,  I  suppose  you  don't.  That  move  of  your 
father's  was  really  wonderfully  well  timed.  That'll 
keep  them  quiet  for  a  bit,  I'll  warrant." 

' '  I  wanted  to  go  up  to  London  this  week. ' ' 

' '  Yes ;  well,  why  not  ?  Lord  Yetminster  had  a  per- 
fect right,  of  course.  But  I  don't  like  to  think  of 
those  men  tramping  all  the  way  round,  day  after  day ; 
I  know  three  or  four  of  them  quite  well.  And  be- 
sides, as  your  father  saw — " 

"Perhaps  I  shall  go  Tuesday — or  Wednesday." 

"Ah !  Lord  Yetminster  usually  gets  what  he  wants. 
Eemember  that  tussle  he  had  with  Sir  Hugh? 
Dicky  Podd  told  me.  'Th'  owd  Squire  he  went  ahid 
hully  wunnerful.  I  dunno  what  he  worn't  a-goin' 
ter  du.  But  du  yu  howd  hard  there. — When  last  come 
last  he  couldn'  du  narthin'  along  o'  his  lordship.  Th' 
owd  Squire,  he  had  to  set  right  quiet  like  a  duzzy 
fule.  Ah,  'bor,  yu  may  be  quiet  and  quite  a  fule.' 
But  no  doubt  your  father — " 

"I  say,  Wilfred!  You  see  it's  this  way,  I  simply 
must  get  up  to  London — " 

"Motor  or  train?  That  reminds  me,  you  know  I 
haven't  had  a  look  at  that  cycle  of  yours  yet.  I 
should  say  there's  two  hours'  solid  overhauling  work 
ahead  of  us,  by  the  look  of  it." 

"Look    here,    wait    a    second."    Alec    reddened 


DISCLOSURES  225 

furiously,  rushing  his  words.  "I  haven't  money  to 
get  to  London  and  I  must  go." 

"For  how  long?"  Wilfred  asked  placidly. 

''Oh— just  for  a  day." 

"Better  make  it  a  week.  A  day  would  be  too 
risky.  Twenty  pounds  would  carry  you  through  a 
week,  travel  expenses  included,  I  suppose?"  Him- 
self the  most  frugal  of  men,  never  guilty  of  any 
extravagance  except  in  buying  tools  for  his  motor 
workshop,  "Wilfred  Vail  ran  riot  in  the  excess  of  his 
estimates  of  other  people's  expenditures,  especially  in 
travelling  by  train  and  staying  away  from  home.  He 
never  did  either  of  these  things  himself.  Between 
Suffolk  and  a  suburb  of  London  where  his  mother  had 
another  house,  he  invariably  motored.  "Well?" 

"Oh,  easily."  Alec  had  been  too  delightedly  taken 
aback  to  reply  at  once. 

"The  Motor  Review  people  sent  me  eighteen  pounds 
odd  yesterday  for  articles.  So  I  actually  have  some- 
thing in  the  Bank,  which  is  lucky  or  unlucky  for  you 
as  the  case  may  be.  You  shall  have  a  cheque  for 
twenty  pounds  three  shillings  and  sevenpence."  He 
took  out  one  of  the  four  fountain-pens  that  he  carried 
— all  of  them  always  in  perfect  order,  always  with 
nibs  that  shone.  "Did  you  know  that  your  small 
change  fell  out  of  your  trouser-pocket  on  to  my  chair 
last  time  you  were  here?  When  you're  married,  you 
must  be  more  careful.  Three  and  seven.  I'd  bought 
myself  a  small  present  with  it  already,  and  you'd 
never  have  got  it  back  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  cheque 


226  BRUTE  GODS 

that  I'm  writing  you  now.  'Alexander'?  I  suppose 
'Alexander'  is  correct,  but  how  very  odd." 

"I  say — you  know —  It  really  is  awfully — thanks 
awfully." 

"If  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  be  a  fool,  you 
see,  nothing  can  stop  you.  And  if  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst,  you  can  pay  me  back  out  of  the  allow- 
ance she  makes  you.  Then  I  shall  buy  a  new  lathe. 
I've  been  hesitating  over  it  for  some  time,  but  your 
marriage  will  make  me  reckless."  He  handed  over 
the  cheque,  and  Alec,  with  a  beating  heart,  surveyed 
the  familiar  small  neat  clear  handwriting.  "The 
stub  will  be  a  memento.  The  stub  will  often  amuse 
me." 

"I'll— I'll  write  to  you  from  London." 

"Yes,  send  me  a  sonnet  or  two,  do.  And  now  for 
that  filthy  cycle  of  yours.  You've  no  idea  how  much 
better  it  will  run.  ...  Oil  and  grease, ' '  he  ruminated 
lovingly.  "Oil  and  grease." 

They  went  out.  Cheque  or  no  cheque,  there  would 
not  have  been  further  hint  of  estrangement  from  Wil- 
fred. The  bitter  jealous  enmity  between  love  and 
friendship — bitter  because  between  the  temporary 
victor  and  the  rival  that  can  wait  and  win — had  seldom 
been  so  casually  disarmed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHEN  he  got  home  late  that  afternoon  Alec 
found  his  Aunt  Cathy  hovering  about  the 
hall,  with  nervous  importance. 

"Oh,  Alec.  I've  been  waiting.  Your  father — he 
wished  me  to  speak — he  wishes  us  to  have  a  talk  to- 
gether." She  was  deprecating  and  excited. 

"When  did  he  get  back?"  Alec  was  eager  for 
that  information. 

"Oh,  a  long  time  ago — a  long  time." 

"When,  exactly." 

' '  I  couldn  't  quite  say,  Alec. ' '  She  became  secretive 
at  once,  indulging  herself  with  sensational  fantastic 
conjectures  about  the  motive  of  the  boy's  question. 

"Oh,  surely  you  must  know." 

"No,  I  really  can't  remember."  She  pushed  out 
her  lower  lip.  No  doubt  Sidney  and  the  boys  were 
keeping  something  from  her. 

"Before  lunch?" 

"I  think  he  was  late.  I  don't  know."  The  wish 
for  intrigue  urged  her:  it  seemed  mysteriously  im- 
portant not  to  enlighten  her  nephew. 

' '  But  you  must  know  whether  he  was  late  or  not. ' ' 
They  walked  up  the  stairs. 

"I  really  will  not  be  bullied,  Alec,  I — " 

"Was  he  at  lunch  at  all?" 

"Of  course  he  ate  his  lunch." 
227 


228  BRUTE  GODS 

Alec  gave  up.  They  entered  the  little  room  that 
Aunt  Cathy  called  her  "boudoir,"  where  she  had 
to  have  so  much  of  her  own  company,  which  she  hated. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  have  to  take  the  place  of  a  mother  to  you  now." 
She  sat  very  erect,  reproving  his  lounging  attitude. 
"You  are  making  your  father  very  unhappy." 

"'Unhappy'?    Himf" 

"We  must  all  try  to  be  especially  considerate  of 
him  now.  I'm  sure  your  own  niceness  of  feeling 
will  tell  you  that." 

"All  I  want  is  for  him  to  leave  me  alone!" 

"He  is  very  much  pained  and  hurt  by  your  dis- 
obedience. ' '  Mrs.  Mo  wry  was  making  an  effort  to  re- 
member all  she  had  prepared  to  say,  and  to  say  it 
in  the  right  order.  "Especially  at  such  a  time  as 
this.  Now  I'm  sure,  Alec  dear,  it's  only  because 
you've  been  thoughtless  and  unrestrained.  You  won't 
do  it  again,  will  you?" 

"Do  what?" 

"You  know."  Her  delicacies  obstructed  her.  The 
boy's  question  seemed  unfeelingly  gross.  "It 
wouldn't  be  nice  for  us  to — to  go  into  any  detail,  you 
know  it  wouldn't.  It  would  be — coarse." 

"Oh,  all  right."    He  got  up. 

"Alec!    Won't  you  promise  me?" 

"How  can  I,  if  you  won't  say?"  He  turned  and 
examined  a  framed  photograph  that  stood  on  her 
writing-desk. 

"I  mean  not  to — not  to  run  wild.  If  you'd  just  be 
quiet — and  think.  These  bad  girls — " 


DISCLOSURES  229 

' '  '  Bad  girls ' ! "    He  flashed  angrily. 

''The  Clark  girl—" 

"Oh,  Frippie!  Don't  worry  about  her.  Who  is 
this  photo  ?  I  've  never  seen  it  before. ' ' 

4 'Oh."  Mrs.  Mowry  dropped  her  eyes.  "I  didn't 
mean  you  to — I've  had  it  put  away  for  a  long  while. 
And  you  know,  it's  not  only  the  Clark  girl." 

"Well."  Alec  blushed.  Gillian's  light  quick 
figure,  all  her  tingling  mobilities,  were  instantly  on 
him.  "I  don't  care—" 

"You  can't  wonder  at  our  anxiety,  Alec.  To  have 
made  a  deliberate  assignation! — Of  course  no  one 
would  mind  your  meeting  nice  girls,  in  a  nice  way." 

"Did  my  father  say  that  she  wasn't — wasn't 
'nice'?" 

"And  then  you  know — that  dreadful  man — that 
wicked  man  who  has  done  us  all  such  terrible  harm 
and  wrong — " 

"Did  he  say  anything?" 

"It  was  because  of  her  that  that  man  came  down 
here  to  begin  with!  And  every  one  knows — " 

"What  did  Father  say  about  her?" 

"I  don't  at  all  like  to  talk  about  such  things — " 

"Why  shouldn't  you  tell  me  what  he  said?" 

"It  shows  that  there  was  something  quite  wrong, 
you  must  see.  .  .  .  And  you're  much  too  young  to 
think  seriously  of — of  anything  like  this,  in  any  case. ' ' 

Alec  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  ' '  Seriously ' ' ! 
What  a  word!  But  of  course  she  couldn't  possibly 
know  how  he —  "I  want  to  know  what  my  father 
said,"  he  insisted. 


230  BRUTE  GODS 

1 '  Of  course  he  was  very  much  distressed.  If  you  'd 
been  older,  and  had  met  her  at  people's  houses,  if 
you'd  had  some  sort  of  an  understanding,  even — but 
it  seems  you'd  only  seen  her  once  before!  No  one 
could  possibly  think  it  right.  And  just  after  you 
had  met  that — that  'Frippie.'  Yes,  your  father 
knows  of  that.  And  when  we  remember  the — the  very 
queer  opinions,  and  friends,  that  Miss  Collett  is  known 
to  have,  we  can't  help  being  all  the  more  distressed 
and  uneasy.  In  a  way  it  makes  it  all  really  worse, 
her  being  a — "  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  say 
"lady."  "Her  being  socially — well,  not  of  the  class 
of  the  girl  Clark." 

"I  should  think  she  wasn't!"  His  aunt's  words 
and  phrases  began  to  ruffle  Alec  with  their  ineptness. 
His  father  "distressed" — Gillian  "not  of  the  class" 
of  Frippie. 

"You  will  end  this — this  foolishness,  Alec,  will 
you  not?  You  know  you  are  very  dear  to  us — " 
This  last  expression  seemed  to  her  to  confirm,  fully, 
the  whole  demeanour  of  her  present  talk ;  Mrs.  Mowry 
felt  herself  in  full  achievement  of  her  new  prominence 
in  the  household. 

"But,  Aunt  Cathy,  you  don't  in  the  least,  you 
can't — "  "Foolishness"!  There  she  was  again. 
"I  say,  who's  that  a  photo  of?  It's  a  jolly  pretty 
girl." 

Aunt  Cathy's  tightened  mouth  pulled  jerkily  down : 
she  stammered,  her  face  twitched,  then  there  came 
a  sob,  loud  and  ungainly  in  its  forcing  out  from  sup- 
pression. Alec  stood,  terribly  confused  and  helpless. 


DISCLOSURES  231 

He  could  not  look  at  her,  he  was  too  much  disturbed 
to  be  puzzled  by  the  effect  of  his  simple  observation. 
This  sudden  indecent  intrusion  of  reality  upon  pre- 
tence was  too  much  for  him. 

"It  was  of — of  me,"  at  length  she  told  him. 

"You!  Oh,  I  say — I'm  awfully  sorry — "  He  sat 
down,  still  looking  away. 

"Yes."  She  dried  her  eyes.  "It  was  taken  just 
before  I  was  married — to  give  to  him."  She  wanted 
to  intimate  to  Alec  that  her  emotion  came  from  the 
memory  of  her  husband's  untimely  death,  not  from 
the  thoughts  of  her  own  lost  fruitless  youth  and 
prettiness.  The  truth  was  that  the  photograph  had 
been  taken  when  she  was  a  year  or  so  widowed,  for 
the  man  to  whom  she  was  then  engaged.  "I'm  sure 
it  was  all  for  the  best,"  she  added. 

' '  What  was  ? ' '  Alec  half  looked  up,  catching  sight 
of  his  aunt's  neck,  struck  by  its  emphasis  of  her  age. 

' '  Oh,  everything.  I  could  have  married  again,  you 
know,  Alec."  She  flushed  a  little,  with  pride:  even 
the  worst  bitterness  of  her  unconfessed  regrets  had 
always  been  touched  with  pride  and  a  certain  excite- 
ment. 

"Yes,  I  remember.    Why  didn't  you?" 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  right.  Faithfulness  is  a 
great  thing,  Alec,  even  after  death.  If  you  have 
once  truly  loved,  you  never  can —  It  wouldn't  have 
been  nice."  This  was  her  expression  of  the  idealiza- 
tions that  had  supported  her  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century. 

Alec  looked  at  her.    She  seemed  quite  different. 


232  BRUTE  GODS 

Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  mouth  was  loosened.  ' '  Of 
course — "  He  hesitated,  thinking  of  ' '  true  love ' '  and 
Gillian.  If  he  were  to  lose  Gillian,  he  would  never 
marry  any  one  else,  of  course  not.  But  that  wasn't 
the  same.  That  photograph — Aunt  Cathy —  .  .  . 

"Queen  Victoria  .  .  .  what  a  wonderful  example 
she  gave!"  Alec  stared,  being  of  a  generation  to 
which  Queen  Victoria  was  nothing.  "Your  father 
was  quite  right — quite." 

"Father!    What  had  he  to  do  with  it?" 

"Why — "  Malice  and  revenge,  from  under  deep 
cover,  prompted  her.  "Why,  he  made  me  see — how 
very  undesirable — " 

' '  He  stopped  your  marrying  again  when  you  wanted 
to!" 

"Oh,  not  'stopped.'  He  made  me  see.  Of  course 
he  did  right." 

"Good  Lord!"  Alec  passionately  resolved  that  he 
would  never  let  his  father  make  him  see  anything. 
"Why,  he  married  twice  himself!" 

"Ah,  and  see  what's  come  of  it!" 

"He  didn't  really —  It  wasn't  fair!  It  was  just 
like  him!" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that.  We  mustn't — " 
She  could  not  help  being  consciously  gratified. 

"And  you'd  only  been  married  for  two  or  three 
weeks — " 

"But  it  was  marriage,  Alec." 

Her  outward  intention  was  to  stress  the  enduring 
sanctity  of  a  marriage  that  might  be  only  of  an  hour : 
inwardly  she  fostered  her  pride  in  not  being  an  old 


DISCLOSURES  233 

maid.  This  pride  was  constant.  If  any  one  called 
her  "Miss"  she  never  forgave  him. 

They  sat  silent.  Alec,  out  of  his  new  emotions  of 
that  morning,  felt  sorry  for  her.  He  felt  indignant 
and  helpless.  He  thought  of  Mervyn,  in  association. 
He  reproached  himself  with  lack  of  sympathy  for 
Mervyn  and  Dolly.  He  had  been  just  as  unsympa- 
thetic there  as  Wilfred  Vail  had  been  for  him.  After 
all,  what  did  he  know  about  Dolly  ?  Mervyn —  Here, 
too,  his  father  stood,  baulking  and  evil,  a  thing  to 
harm  them  all,  spoil  every  one's  life,  bite  it  up,  if 
he  could.  It  was  what  he  had  done,  and  he'd  go  on. 
His  guilt  gathered  weight.  Alec's  anger  against  his 
father  rose  again,  with  the  same  cold  force. 

"You  will  see  things  in  the  right  light,  Alec,  won't 
you?  You  will  be  true  to  your  conscience?" 

"I'll— oh,  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do!"  He  got 
up.  "Is  Mervyn  in?" 

"But,  Alec—" 

"I  want  to  see  him.    I  must  go,  really." 

' '  And  you  won 't  promise —  ? ' ' 

He  left,  closing  the  door  gently.  "Conscience." 
The  word  rang  memories  of  childhood.  It  had  always 
suggested  some  offensive  insect — "still"  and  "small." 
"I  should  have  thought  your  conscience  would  have 
told  you. ' ' — Mervyn  didn  't  seem  to  be  in  the  house. — 
Alec,  opening  the  side-door,  heard  him  in  the  region 
of  the  stables: 

"She's  a  la-ady, 
She  has  a  daughter 
Whom  I  adore — " 


234.  BRUTE  GODS 

The  young  man  broke  off,  and  started  humming  the 
tune,  wandering  away  with  his  back  to  the  approach- 
ing Alec. 

"I  say,  Mervyn — " 

"Hulloa,  what  are  you  up  to?  You're  a  nice  kid. 
I  say,  you  have  been  going  it. ' ' 

"Have  you  spoken  to  the  guv 'nor  yet  about — you 
know — about  you  and — ?" 

"Oh,  I  spoke  all  right.    So  did  he." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Wanted  to  know  if  we'd  "both  gone  nutty.  Said 
he  was  beginning  to  think  he  was  in  charge  of  a  lunatic 
asylum. ' ' 

"What  did  you—?" 

"Oh,  he  was  hopeless.  I  saw  that  at  once.  It's 
your  fault,  too,  why  the  devil  did  you  want  to  go  and 
get  cobbed?  I  didn't  know  he'd  cobbed  you,  or  of 
course  I  wouldn't  have — but  it  wouldn't  have  been  any 
good,  anyhow.  I  knew  that,  really."  He  sat  down 
on  a  bench  in  a  corner  of  the  stable. 

"Well,  but  can't  you—?    Good  Lord,  it's—" 

"Oh,  don't  get  so  damned  excited.  What  can  /  do ? 
He  went  on  six  to  the  dozen.  'Won't  hear  of  it' — 
'My  old  friend,  Dr.  Eesine.'  Said  I'd  be  tearin'  the 
last  shreds  of  the  family  honour.  Started  talkin' 
about  Dolly,  too,  but  I  shut  him  up  there." 

' '  But  he  can 't  stop  you.  Why  didn  't  you  say  you  'd 
made  up  your  mind?" 

* '  Oh,  confound  you,  don't  you  begin  now.  How  the 
deuce  can  I  marry  Dolly  on  twopence-halfpenny  a 
year?  I  had  to  agree  not  to  go  back  to  Oxford,  that's 


DISCLOSURES  235 

all  I  got  out  of  it.  Lord,  he  said  he'd  stop  that 
cheque;  he  would  have,  too." 

"Let  him.  Look  here,  I've  got  some  money." 
Alec  felt  powerful,  with  that  cheque  of  "Wilfred's  in 
his  pocket.  "I'll  share  it  with  you.  Let's  both  go 
up  to  London  and  be  free  of  him  for  good.  We  could 
get  some  kind  of  work — " 

"How  much  have  you  got?"  Mervyn  asked  scep- 
tically. 

"Twenty  pounds." 

"What  the  hell's  the  good  of  twenty  pounds?" 

' '  Well.  He  didn  't  stop  that  hundred,  did  he  ?  You 
could  get  it  through  at  once." 

"Who  gave  you  twenty  pounds?" 

"Vail  did.  Lent  it.  I'm  going  to  London,  you 
come  too,  and — " 

"Oh,  but  you  see,  I  agreed — " 

' '  What,  you  don 't  mean  to  say  you  agreed  to  marry 
Nita!" 

"Oh,  damn  it  all,  don't  cross-examine  me  like  a 
blasted  lawyer.  I  didn't  exactly."  Mervyn  began 
humming  again. 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  you  really  care  about  Dolly — " 

"What  are  you  after,  anyhow?  Another  elope- 
ment ?  Gad,  that  would  be  too  damn  funny ! ' ' 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want  to  laugh — " 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  It's  no  go,  that's  what  it  is, 
you  might  as  well  laugh.  He's  got  me,  he  knows  that. 
I  don 't  care,  I  shall  manage  to  see  something  of  Dolly 
all  right,  you  bet  your  life.  'Mrs.  Dra-ake,'  "  he  half 
sang,  ' '  '  She 's  a  la-ady,  She  has  a  daughter,  Whom  I 


236  BRUTE  GODS 

adore. '  Fancy  your  bein '  struck  on  that  Collett  gal, ' ' 
he  added  indifferently. 

Alec  looked  at  his  brother  with  a  new  sharpening 
of  perception.  He  realized  how  little  dominance  of 
will  or  spirit  there  was  in  him  now.  Yet  he  hadn't 
always  been  like  that.  "When  the  war  was  on,  and  be- 
fore he  had  got  into  it,  he  was  different.  Had  his 
spirit  been  used  too  hard,  used  up,  which  was  the 
same,  in  result,  as  being  broken?  Alec,  without 
phrasing  his  thoughts,  had  glimpse  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  disintegration  of  will  and  spirit  by  violence, 
by  excess  of  effort  terrifically  sustained  in  the  midst 
of  all  that  unnatural  choking  abundance  of  death 
and  torture ;  he  understood,  though  vaguely,  the  isola- 
tion of  himself  and  all  those  who,  like  himself,  had 
been  born  too  late  for  that  call  on  spirit  and  will. 
.  .  .  Mervyn  went  on  with  his  humming  and  half- 
singing.  Alec  knew  what  he  would  say,  if  he  pressed 
him  further.  "What's  the  use?"  "Anything  for  a 
quiet  life."  The  boy  hardened  under  his  brother's 
acquiescence.  He  knew  now  that  he'd  have  to  do 
everything  by  himself,  everything  important. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  guv 'nor  said?"  Mervyn 
remarked  suddenly.  ' '  He  said  it  didn  't  really  matter 
much  who  you  married,  not  after  the  first  year.  That 
if  you  were  anything  of  a  man,  you'd  make  her  the 
right  wife  for  you  by  then,  whatever  she  was  to  start 
with.  Queer  idea,  what?  I  suppose  there  may  be 
something  in  it." 

"Oh,  he's  never  been  in  love,  how  could  he  be?" 


DISCLOSURES  237 

' '  Well,  I  suppose  he  meant  that  after  the  first  year 
that  would  be  all  done  with — I  wonder?" 

"It  wouldn't!  If  you're  really  in  love  it  lasts  for 
ever,  I  know  it  does!" 

"Yes,  it  does  feel  that  way.  Don't  see  how  you 
know,  though,  kid  like  you.  Must  be  time  for  supper. 
That's  the  guv 'nor  nosin'  about  by  the  shrubbery. 
Let's  clear  out.  Damn  funny  how  one  gets  to  hate  the 
sight  of  one's  guv 'nor,  isn't  it?  Come  along." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  him." 

"Christ,  I  don't!"    Mervyn  sheered  off. 

Alec,  walking  to  the  shrubbery,  felt  convincingly 
that  he  had  given  his  father  his  chance,  and  that  his 
father  had  deliberately  rejected  it.  He  did  not  see 
that,  with  Mr.  Glaive,  there  could  never  have  been 
any  real  question  of  a  "  chance, ' '  any  question  of  con- 
scious rejection  or  acceptance — at  this  set  time  of  his 
life,  least  of  all.  The  boy,  as  he  approached,  played 
unwitting  comedy  in  his  irresistible  sense  of  being  a 
judge  who  had  passed  sentence. 

"Well?"  Mr.  Glaive  screwed  up  his  eyes  at  him. 
He  thought  his  demeanour  astonishingly  insolent. 

' '  I  want  to  go  to  London  this  week. ' ' 

"Oh,  indeed." 

"Yes.     I'm  going  to  London." 

"I  do  not  allow  you  to  go." 

"All  right,  then." 

"Do  you  mean  you  defy  me?  I  shall  not  give  you 
one  penny — not  a  farthing.  I  've  had  enough  of  this. ' ' 
The  man's  colour  drained  slowly  out. 

...3 , 


238  BRUTE  GODS 

"You're  not  the  only  person  I  can  get  money 
from." 

"Oh,  I  see!  I  might  have  expected  that.  Wil- 
liams and  his  gang,  they're  bent  on  dishonouring  my 
name  to  the  utmost!  They're  using  you  against  me, 
and  you  can  lend  yourself  to  it ! " 

"Williams—?" 

"That  woman  is  a — a  friend,  let  us  say,  of  his, 
don't  you  know  that?" 

"I  don't  care  if  she  is!"  Alec  missed  the  impli- 
cation. 

"If  you  go,  you  won't  come  back." 

"Oh!     D'you  think  I  want  to?" 

"You  admit  she  gave  you  money?" 

"I  shan't  tell  you." 

"It  is  outrageous.  I  will  not  have  it.  You're 
under  age.  I — I  shall  appeal  to  Mr.  Collett.  Of 
course  I  know  perfectly  well  why  you  want  to  go  to 
London.  Didn't  your  aunt  tell  you  that  it  was  en- 
tirely on  that  woman's  account  that  Williams  first — " 

"What  did  you  say  to— to  her?" 

"It  ought  to  be  enough  for  you,  the  knowledge 
of  that  association.  That  should  settle  the  matter 
absolutely.  If  you  had  any  sort  of  regard  for  me,  any 
sense  of  the  family  reputation,  any  moral  sense — " 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

"How  dare  you  take  such  a  tone,  sir?" 

Mr.  Glaive  looked  sharply  at  his  son's  vivid  stiff- 
ened face.  He  turned  away.  His  anger  and  vanity 
and  jealousy  began  to  give  ground  before  the  ap- 
proach of  a  new  attacking  force:  he  laboured  un- 


DISCLOSURES  239 

easily  in  the  thought  of  the  new  humiliation  that 
such  a  breach  with  Alec  would  bring  on  him.  The 
connection  with  Miriam — a  connection  terribly,  in- 
decently close — disgrace  upon  disgrace.  And  here 
was  Alec,  silent,  obstinate.  They  would  finance  him, 
no  doubt  .  .  .  anything  to  feed  their  malice  .  .  . 
against  him  .  .  .  how  grossly  wicked! 

"You  are  your  own  enemy."  The  father  changed 
his  tone,  which  became  grave  and  reasoned,  and  con- 
trolled. "I  should  not  be  fair  to  you,  I  should  be 
neglecting  my  responsibility,  if  I  did  not  point  that 
out.  I  do  not  speak  of  your  duty  to  me.  That,  I 
know,  you  do  not  regard,  not  at  this  moment.  Later, 
you  will.  No  Glaive  could  ever — you  will  be  sorry 
that  you — "  His  voice  broke  artfully. 

"You  haven't  told  me  what  she  said  to  you." 

"It  is  a  question  of  your  duty  to  yourself,  it's  a 
question  of  your  career."  He  intensified  the  word 
piously.  "Is  this  a  good  beginning,  Alec — I  put  it 
to  you  merely  on  the  grounds  of  common  sense — is  it 
beginning  well  to  make  a  break  with  your  home,  to 
defy  your  father,  your  father  who  has  supported  and 
helped  and  counselled  and — "  his  voice  dropped, 
"loved  you  all  these  long  years?"  Carried  high  on 
the  flow  of  his  idea  of  himself,  he  spoke  with  perfect 
sincerity. 

"Did  you  try  to  persuade  her?" 

"I  should  never  act  in  any  way  but  for  your  in- 
terest. I  never  have,  as  you  well  know."  Glaive 
began  again  to  twitch  with  jealousy  of  his  son  and 
the  girl  whom  he  had  driven  into  Malstowe  that  morn- 


240  BRUTE  GODS 

ing.  The  absence  of  his  wife  had  begun  to  harass 
him.  Alec  must  not  go  to  London.  "As  to  my  con- 
versation with  Miss  Collett — "  Glaive  resolved  to  be 
tactful:  he  would  even,  in  a  dignified  way,  be 
propitiatory.  ' '  As  to  that — ' ' 

"Well?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell  you."  He  paused,  with 
the  boy's  steady  demanding  eyes  upon  him.  What 
audacity!  When  he  had  made  him!  His  son! 
Thank  God  that  Mervyn —  Recalling  his  triumph 
over  Mervyn,  "You  don't  imagine,"  he  went  on  with 
a  familiar  swing  of  sarcasm  that  reassured  him  at 
once,  "you  don't  imagine,  do  you,  that  when  a  woman 
of  her  age  makes  an  assignation  with  a  schoolboy  the 
first  time  she  sees  him — well,  there  wouldn't  be  much 
she  could  say  to  his  father,  would  there?" 

"You  mean  that  you  didn't  talk  about  me  at  all?" 

"She  was  clever  enough,  experienced  enough,  not 
to,  and  I  think  I  know  when  to  speak  and  when  not  to 
speak. — Now,  Alec."  He  remembered  his  tact. 
"We've  all  been  under  a  dreadful  strain.  Action  and 
reaction.  I  quite  allow  for  that.  I  understand,  only 
too  well,  the  terrible  influence  of  example.  One  evil 
act.  The  loosening  of  one  bond  in  a  family  may 
threaten  the  loosening  of  all.  We  have  to  stand  to- 
gether. As  you  know,  it's  not  only  you  I've  had 
to  deal  with.  This  trouble  with  Mervyn  and  some 
shady  little  milliner's  apprentice,  coming  on  the  very 
heels  of — " 

"Lookout!" 

"You  are  not  yourself,  Alec.    I  can't  regard  either 


DISCLOSURES  241 

of  you  as  responsible.  But  at  least  Mervyn  came  to 
me,  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  he  ended  by  see- 
ing things  in  the  right  light." 

"He  didn't!  Why  did  you  stop  Aunt  Cathy  mar- 
rying again?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Mr.  Glaive's  eye  shot 
angrily.  "She  told  you  that?" 

"I  know  you  did." 

"Then  disabuse  yourself  of  so — so  preposterous  a 
notion.  Your  aunt  has  always  been  a  perfectly  free 
agent."  He  determined,  viciously,  to  speak  to 
Catherine.  She  must  have  said  something.  "My 
advice  was  given  for  the  best — in  a  matter  of  which 
you  can  know  nothing.  A  matter  which  it  would  be 
most  unbecoming  in  me  to  discuss  with  you  or  with 
any  one." 

Glaive  jerked  his  head  impatiently,  and  started 
walking  back  to  the  house.  Alec  walked  with  him, 
silent,  unbelieving.  His  thoughts  of  his  father's  self- 
ish cruelties,  as  he  saw  them,  lacked  light  of  older 
knowledge.  He  could  not  realize  that  Glaive,  like 
your  Oriental  potentates,  found  it  necessary  for  his 
convenience  and  comfort  to  have  eunuchs  about  him: 
the  boy  could  not  be  expected  to  appreciate  the  moral- 
ity of  this  predilection  which  placed  his  father  in  such 
essential  support  of  a  society  whose  rules  decree  the 
unsexing  of  a  certain  chance  few.  Nor  could  Mr. 
Glaive  be  expected  to  explain  the  matter  to  him. 

So  they  walked  on  without  speaking.  Mr.  Glaive's 
thoughts  turned  almost  at  once  from  his  immaterial 
sister.  The  prospect  of  letting  Alec  go  to  Gillian 


242  BRUTE  GODS 

Collett  in  London  was  tormentingly  bitter:  and  why 
should  he,  why  should  he?  Who  wouldn't  be  on  his 
side  there — a  father — ?  But  he  had  to  face  the  fact 
that  if  there  were  a  clear  break,  that  would  be  worse, 
every  one  would  see  it,  all  eyes  would  be  freshly  on 
him,  he  knew  how.  Alec ^nust  not  go,  flouting  him: 
a  double  calamity,  hitting  both  his  jealousy  and  his 
self-esteem.  He  must  use  all  his  skill  to  prevent  his 
son  seeing  that  he  was  prepared  to  give  way.  Surely 
Alec  wouldn  't  really  go  so  far.  ...  If  only  that  un- 
principled impudent  clever  wench  hadn't  given  him 
money !  How  could  he  take  it  ?  No  pride.  .  .  .  And 
what  obstinacy,  what  cursed  obstinacy!  That  he 
should  be  at  the  mercy  of  this  young  mule!  Cath- 
erine must  have  been  to  blame,  somehow:  if  she  had 
had  anything  to  do  with  it,  if  she  had  got  herself 
mixed  up  in  her  silly  way,  he'd  pretty  soon — 
Glaive's  mind  struck  out  in  febrile  search  for  some- 
thing to  help  him — some  implement.  He  felt  gravely 
wronged  by  a  system  that  gave  nothing  to  his  need. 
There  should  have  been  something,  it  reflected  on  the 
general  morality  that  there  was  not.  His  sense  was 
that  at  that  moment  he  ought  to  have  been  able  to 
call  down  a  thunderbolt  from  heaven. 

"You  have  your  work  to  do  for  Oxford,"  he  an- 
nounced with  a  forced  mildness.  "This  week  you 
were  to  start  coaching  with  Mr.  Braithwaite.  You 
have  to  pass  Smalls,  haven't  you?" 

'"Smalls'?"  Alec  half-grunted,  half-laughed. 
The  emergences  of  resemblance  between  his  father  and 
Aunt  Cathy  were  comic.  Alec  felt,  tickling  down  his 
back,  the  ineptitude  of  this  anticlimax. 


CHAPTER  XX 

DEATH,  with  its  familiar  intervention  at  an 
awkward  haphazard,  its  familiar  accidental 
wantonness,  chose  this  time.     It  came  up  to 
Alec  out  of  nothing,  and  addressed  itself  to  him  forth- 
with as  an  incomparable  fact. 

The  boy,  who  could  no  more  take  that  fact  than  he 
could  have  taken  the  values  of  ^Eschylus  or  Michael 
Angelo,  almost  at  once  ran  off  from  it,  with  queer 
brain-buzzings,  with  specked  quiverings  of  the  vistas 
of  his  feelings.  The  tragedy's  visible  first  effect  was 
to  make  him  pull  his  valise  from  under  the  bed  and 
pack  it,  with  a  dispatch  that  was  orderly  and  directed ; 
indeed,  of  a  meticulous  direction  unusual  to  him.  He 
folded  each  necktie.  His  mind  was  traversed  by 
memories  of  his  old  nurse,  memories  of  a  Malstowe 
boy  with  whom  he  used  to  go  out  rat-catching  when  he 
was  about  twelve,  schoolday  memories,  obscene  jokes, 
snatches  of  poetry.  .  .  .  "Down  the  all-golden 
waterways,  Its  feet  flew  after  yesterday's.  .  .  ." 
"Its  feet"?  "His  feet"?  Which  was  it?  "Fear 
no  more  the  heat  o'  th'  sun,  Nor  the  furious  "winter's 
rages.  ..."  His  nurse  used  to  say  it  wasn't  the 
wearing  the  neckties  that  wore  them  out,  it  was  the 
tying  them.  "That  girl's  gone  and  put  three 
blankets  on  my  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  summer,  why, 
I  shouldn't  need  more  at  Christmas!"  Alec  reflected 

243 


244  BRUTE  GODS 

on  the  certainty  of  his  never  forgetting  those  obser- 
vations so  long  as  he  lived.  What  was  the  reason  for 
his  remembering  them  so  faithfully,  so  accurately, 
with  the  intonation  of  each  word  ?  There  was  nothing 
round  them,  nothing  else  that  he  could  remember. 
.  .  .  An  accident — chance — no  reason,  no  meaning. 
That  last  day  at  school,  the  farewell  Chapel  Service : 
"Those  returning,  those  returning,  Make  more  faith- 
ful than  before."  Hudson  major,  with  his  great  ugly 
face,  singing  lustily.  "Faithful"!  Aunt  Cathy 
believed  in  being  faithful,  that  was  why.  .  .  . 

But  he  would  not  think  of  Aunt  Cathy,  nor  of 
Mervyn,  nor  of  his  father,  nor  of —  He  tried  hard 
to  think  of  Gillian,  he  couldn  't  see  her,  everybody  else 
was  more  real,  that  wasn't  right,  why  should  they 
be?  Suppose  it  had  been  Gillian  who  had  died?  A 
person  dying  seemed  to  make  everything  so  awfully 
unsafe,  somehow.  He  must,  must,  must  go  at  once. 
All  the  more.  This  determination,  sprung  from  his 
passion,  and  already  rivalling  its  dominance,  now, 
under  the  shock  of  death,  almost  replaced  it.  His 
recklessness  was  intensified.  Tonight  he'd  be  in 
London.  .  .  .  He  went  on  packing,  less  carefully, 
impatiently:  he  knocked  some  things  on  to  the  floor, 
he  hurried  over  to  the  washstand  to  get  his  tooth- 
powder.  Dr.  Resine  must  have  been  in  a  hurry  the 
evening  before.  Dr.  Resine  thought  such  a  lot  of  him- 
self, he —  Alec  burst  out  laughing.  The  old  doctor, 
with  his  fat  paunch  stuck  out,  he  must  have  been 
strutting  round  all  over  the  place,  fussing  and  fum- 
ing and  keeping  up  his  dignity.  And  all  the  while 


DISCLOSURES  245 

the  guv 'nor,  in  the  diningroom,  talking,  talking,  talk- 
ing rot.  .  .  .  Alec  sat  on  the  bed,  laughing  violently. 
What  made  it  so  specially  funny  was  his  father  not 
knowing  about  Dr.  Eesine,  and  Dr.  Resine  not  know- 
ing about  his  father;  the  comic  separateness  of  the 
two  men  and  of  their  actions. 

What  had  happened  was  that  on  the  yesterday 
evening  Mr.  Sidney  Starr  Glaive,  well  launched  at 
last  on  his  postponed  discourse,  doing  his  best  with 
it,  had  rejected  the  interruption  of  a  request  from 
his  old  friend  and  near  neighbour,  the  doctor.  When 
there  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  he  was  in  the  dramatic 
midst  of  his  exposure  of  moral  issues,  both  in  their 
larger  significances  that  trailed  heavenwards,  and  in 
their  dispensed  application  to  the  recent  domestic 
event :  he  was  engaged,  skill  at  full  stride,  in  putting 
this  domestic  event  in  its  final  place  for  himself  and 
his  family,  and  as  God  saw  it.  The  tap  enraged  him. 

He  had  darted  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open. 

"You  knew  you  were  none  of  you  to  come,  on  any 
pretext ! ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,  very  sorry,  sir,  but  it's  Dr.  Eesine 's 
chauffeur,  and  he  say  as  how  the  car  hev  broke  down, 
and  he've  a  case  he  fare  to  hev  to  goo  to  at  once  and 
please  might  he  borrow — ?" 

"Tell  the  man  he's  to  wait  a  few  minutes."  Mr. 
Glaive  slammed  the  door. 

This  annoyance  hurt  the  rest  of  his  harangue,  and 
prolonged  it.  Those  right  words  that  he  had  had  so 
well  in  hand  for  implication  of  reproof  to  Alec  and 
Mervyn  went  awry:  he  had  to  go  back  to  them  and 


246  BRUTE  GODS 

pull  them  straight.  But  his  delayed  peroration  made 
amends:  "Our  union  as  a  family  is  now,  I  am  con- 
vinced, more  real  than  ever  it  was.  "We  see  now  that 
there  could  have  been  no  real  union  before  this  thing 
happened.  Our  very  foundations  were  being  secretly 
sapped :  the  fount  of  our  being  was  all  the  while  de- 
filed by  the  poison  of  a  living  lie.  Those  fair  well- 
springs  of  our  life — they  had  become  'A  cistern,  for 
foul  toads  to  knot  and  gender  in.'  It  is  better  that 
we  should  know,  as  we  know  now.  The  blow  has 
struck  hard,  but  in  the  very  force  of  its  stroke  it  has 
welded  us  firmly.  From  now  on  we  speak  no  more 
of^t:  we  hold  fast,  and  we  hold  together." 

"Amen,"  whispered  Mervyn,  and  Alec,  under  the 
reassertion  of  long  association,  had  to  strive  against 
a  giggle.  Chairs  scraped,  and  again  there  was  a  tap 
at  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want  now?" 
"Please,  sir,  Dr.  Resine 's  chauffeur — " 
"Oh,  yes,  yes.     Can't  the  man  wait  a  minute  or 
two  ?     I  suppose  I  shall  have  to —    Most  inconvenient. 
It  can't  be  an  important  patient,  or  they'd  have  sent 
Resine  a  car  of  their  own.     Mervyn,  you  come  with 
me  and  see  about  this." 

It  was  not  till  the  next  day,  the  Monday,  that 
Alec  learnt  just  how  unimportant  the  patient  had 
been.  Dr.  Resine  had  arrived  "a  minute  or  two"  too 
late;  Frippie  Clark  and  her  premature  child  were 
dead.  She  was  not  in  her  home,  but  with  an  aunt 
who  lived  somewhat  further  from  Dr.  Resine 's  house. 
Her  father  had  so  contrived  it,  out  of  a  shame  quick- 


DISCLOSURES  247 

ened  by  his  continual  association  at  the  time  with  his 
idol,  Joe  Matcham. 

The  young  married  woman,  their  former  servant 
Elsie,  who  had  been  hanging  about  near  the  Glaives' 
on  purpose,  gave  Alec  this  information.  "Owd  Jos 
Clark,"  she  had  said,  "he's  fair  stammed," — Suffolk 
for  "bowled  over."  "What  do  you  think  of  her 
now?"  was  what  she  looked,  but  Alec  gave  her  no 
satisfaction,  and  she  had  to  relapse  compensatingly 
upon  her  natural  rustic  elation  at  a  mortal  catastrophe, 
and  upon  the  prospect  of  sombre  and  startling  gossip 
in  detail  about  the  affair  with  the  Glaive  servants. 
With  Mr.  Alec  she  had  to  leave  out  so  much!  But 
feminine  delicacy  would  of  course  cease  to  be  an 
obstacle  in  feminine  company. 

"He  do  take  it  rare  hard,  pore  man.  He  say  he 
won't  be  able  to  look  Joe  Matcham  i'  th'  face  no 
more ! ' ' 

Alec,  at  that,  had  made  a  sound  of  contemptuous 
impatience  like  a  suppressed  sneeze.  "Oh,  well!  I 
must —  So  long,  Elsie ! ' '  He  left  her  disappointed 
and  surprised ;  she  had  had  only  a  few  scant  minutes. 

The  boy  had  gone  straight  to  his  room.  On  the 
way  his  first  thoughts  were  of  his  own  guilt,  not  of 
his  father's.  "I  never  got  her  those  grapes.  I  never 
met  her  that  morning.  She  may  have  died  because 
of  that!"  She  must  have  worried  about  the  grapes, 
he  knew  she  must  have.  He  'd  begun  it,  and  his  father 
had  finished — finished  her  off.  He'd  wanted  to  kill 
his  father,  now  he  had  helped  with  his  father  in  kill- 
ing this  girl.  His  father's  talk  ...  he  had  talked  the 


248  BRUTE  GODS 

girl  to  death.  Alec  was  not  at  all  occupied  by  sur- 
prise either  at  Frippie's  having  a  child  or  at  his  own 
so  recent  ignorance  of  that  prospect.  Such  things 
happened  to  village  girls  who  were  not  " careful"; 
they  might,  so  he  felt,  happen  at  any  time;  it  could 
never  have  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  expected 
to  know  beforehand.  It  was  not  that  he  was  more 
"innocent"  than  most  boys  of  his  age  and  class: 
it  was  simply  that  ''having  a  child"  was  not  a  real 
concept  to  him. 

Suddenly,  while  opening  the  door  of  his  room,  he 
thought  of  how  he  had  kissed  Frippie,  only  the  other 
day.  He  was  whelmed  in  uncomprehended  horror, 
his  thoughts  stampeded  from  her:  it  was  then  that 
he  took  out  his  valise,  with  those  buzzings  and  quiver- 
ings in  his  brain,  while  the  memories  so  foreign  to 
the  dead  girl  came  on  him  vivid  in  a  rush,  and  held 
him  safe. 

Only  once  again  before  he  left  the  house  did  he  think 
of  the  death  which  had  hastened  his  leaving.  Fasten- 
ing the  straps  of  his  valise,  for  a  moment  he  ques- 
tioned: "Ought  I  to  go  so  soon?"  but  he  did  not 
stay  to  answer.  He  went  quickly  downstairs  and  put 
on  his  hat  and  coat.  He  was  not  either  conscious 
enough  or  sentimental  enough  to  think  that  "down 
the  all-golden  waterways"  Death's  feet  had  flown, 
or  to  entertain  reflections  on  what  might  have  been 
viewed  as  a  step  over  the  coffin  of  his  first  love  to  her 
successor.  Yet  she  had  been  his  first  love,  this  ill- 
starred  little  village  strumpet :  if  she  had  been  merely 
light  to  him,  his  thoughts  could  have  touched  her 


DISCLOSURES  249 

without  that  shrinking;  he  would  not  have  had  to  go 
away  at  once. 

He  knocked  at  his  father's  Study  door.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  London  now,"  he  said. 

"Now?"  Mr.  Glaive  was  unprepared,  baffled. 
Taken  thus,  he  could  not  help  looking  as  he  felt, 
really  frightened.  "When?  How  do  you  think  you 
are  going?" 

"I  can  walk  to  the  village  and  get  a  trap  to  the 
Station." 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  do  that!  What  will 
people  think?  Alec,  I — "  He  confronted  his  son 
for  an  instant,  time  enough  for  him  to  realize  the 
uselessness  of  any  appeal.  But,  perhaps —  "Will 
you  not  at  least  listen  to  Mr.  Collett  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  see  him,  I  couldn't  see  him — " 

' '  He  will  be  very  much  hurt  if  you  don 't.  I  wrote 
to  him  yesterday."  Mr.  Glaive  looked  at  his  watch. 
"I  feel  sure  he'll  be  up  soon,  he  would  hardly  come 
very  much  later  than  now." 

"I  can't  see  him.  I  didn't  go  to  hear  his  sermon 
yesterday. ' ' 

' '  I  must  say  this  is  hardly  the  time  to  be  frivolous. 
Your  good  taste,  at  least — " 

' '  What  did  you  write  to  him  ?  When  do  you  think 
he'll  be  here?"  Alec  looked  apprehensively  out  of 
the  window. 

"I  said  nothing  but  that  I  was  in  trouble  about 
you;  that  I  wished  very  earnestly  that  he  would  see 
fit  to  use  his  influence.  I  asked  him  to  come  as  soon 
as  he  could  today." 


250  BRUTE  GODS 

"He  wouldn't  make  any  difference.  I  must  go." 
Alec  turned  the  door-handle. 

"Well — one  minute.  I  must,  really,  demand  of  you 
one  minute.  I  may  be  doing  wrong,"  he  went  on 
in  an  authoritative  tone,  "but  I  have  now  decided  that 
the  best  way  is  to  let  you  learn  by  experience.  It 
is  the  only  school.  Any  other  father,  of  course — 
But  I  have  never  been  the  conventional  father.  My 
ideas  do  not  run  along  the  usual — er — grooves.  Do 
you  need  money?  I'll  not  refuse  it  you,  you  shall 
have  it!"  Mr.  Glaive  whipped  out  his  purse.  His 
eyes  glistened,  he  was  exhilarated.  A  gesture  like 
that,  at  such  a  time,  it  was  superb!  What  other 
father.  .  .  .?  Alec  was  surprised.  Good.  "Yes,  I 
would  give  you  money." 

"Thanks,  I  have  enough,  though." 

"As  you  will."  Having  made  that  large  gesture, 
Glaive  was  content  to  be  relieved  of  its  material  con- 
sequences. He  was  still  regretting,  at  intervals,  hav- 
ing given  a  whole  hundred  to  Mervyn.  "You  know 
I  have  always —  Well.  Perhaps  you  would  be  good 
enough" — he  spoke  with  a  tinge  of  his  suaver  sar- 
casm— "to  tell  Marshall  to  get  out  the  two-seater  and 
drive  you  to  the  Station?" 

"All  right.  If  you'd  rather."  Alec  was  chafing, 
with  continual  glances  out  on  to  the  drive. 

"And  one  more  thing.  If  I  may  suppose  that  you 
still  have  some  fragment  of  natural  consideration  left 
for  me?  I  don't  want  unnecessary  talk.  As  a — h'm 
— as  a  matter  of  simple  convenience,  I  shall  say  you 
are  staying  with  a  school-friend.  To  avoid  misunder- 


DISCLOSURES  251 

standing  in  the  neighbourhood — particularly  desir- 
able at  this  time,  you  understand?  I  wish  to  have  a 
gentleman's  agreement  with  you." 

"Oh,  all  right." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Mr.  Glaive,  with  the  right  meas- 
ure of  coldness  and  restraint. 

Alone,  he  suppressed  the  twinges  of  his  jealous 
moral  indignation,  though  they  threatened  a  special 
acuteness  because  Gillian,  deliberately  committing  and 
binding  herself,  had  told  him  that  she  would  not 
under  any  circumstances  marry  Alec.  .  .  .  The  father 
reflected  that  his  way  of  dealing  with  the  affair  was 
much  the  best  and  wisest.  No  talk  now,  no  fuss. 
And  Alec  wouldn't  stay  long,  surely  he  couldn't  stay 
long.  .  .  .  By  calling  loudly  to  mind  the  pretence  that 
Alec  was  to  stay  with  a  school-friend,  Mr.  Glaive 
began  almost  to  believe  it. 

Meanwhile  the  boy,  after  giving  Marshall  his  orders 
and  having  come  back  for  the  valise,  caught  sight  of 
the  figure  of  Father  Collett,  very  black  and  large, 
approaching  up  the  drive.  He  had  forgotten  him. 
He  hesitated,  then  went  out  to  meet  him,  with  the 
valise  in  his  hand. 

"You're  going  away?"  The  priest  looked  grave, 
not  surprised. 

' '  Yes.  I  say,  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  I  'm  awfully  sorry 
I  didn't  come  yesterday — you  know — to  hear  you — " 

"Oh.     Never  mind." 

"What— what  happened?" 

"Nothing  happened,  my  dear  boy." 

"Nothing!     But  you  were  going  to — " 


252  BRUTE  GODS 

"I  did.  All  sermons  are  alike  to  them.  I  kept 
my  promise,  Alec. ' '  They  turned  back  together  down 
the  drive. 

' '  I  wish  I  'd  been  there. ' '     The  boy  blushed. 

"You  are  in  love?" 

Alec  nodded. 

"With  Gillian,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"You're  going  away  now  to — to  see  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Well. ' '  A  deep  shadow  of  pain  was  on  the  priest's 
face.  "It  may  be  better.  I  think  it  is  better.  All 
this  may  mean — in  the  end.  ..."  He  broke  off, 
wrought  out  of  his  words.  "I  mean  that  it  shows 
the  difference  in  you  from  others,  and  that  gives  me 
my  hope. ' '  Alec  moved  nearer,  he  could  hardly  hear 
him.  ' '  You  will  be  drawn,  later,  with  the  same  force, 
to  another  end.  You  have  not,  now,  that  same 
hatred?" 

"No.    No,  it's  not  the  same." 

"Ah!  She  took  that  away.  It  was  she  who  did 
that." 

"I  hadn't  thought,  exactly.     I  suppose  so." 

"Well."  Father  Collett  breathed  hard.  "All  is 
by  His  will. — Alec,  I  am  resigning  the  living." 

"Father!    Why?    Please  don't—" 

"I  can't  stay.     There  is  a  death  to  my  charge." 

"A  death?" 

"I  told  you,  last  time,  about  that  girl.  If  I  had 
advised  the  marriage — " 

"Oh,  it  was  her,  then;  I  didn't—" 


DISCLOSURES  253 

"You  know  she  is  dead." 

' '  Yes,  but  that — •    It  was  my  fault,  and  his ! " 

"Your  fault!" 

"Because  I  didn't  want  her  any  more,  because  I 
didn't  meet  her,  because  I  forgot  her  and  made  her 
unhappy. ' ' 

"It  was  I  who  made  her  unhappy.  God  turns  our 
wisdom  into  folly,  and  breaks  us  on  it." 

"It's  brutal  of  him,  then!" 

"No.  We  are  blind."  They  stopped,  standing  at 
the  gate. 

"Love  is  brutal,  too!" 

"Ah,  yes,  ours." 

' '  It  might  have  happened  anyhow.     It  would  have. ' ' 

"No,  no,  she  would  not  have  suffered.  It  would 
all  have  been  different." 

Alec  stood,  wondering.  That  the  three  of  them 
should  have  combined  to  kill  her.  .  .  .  Who  had  taken 
and  used  them  for  this,  and  why?  He  could  not 
blame  his  father  now,  not  heavily. 

"The  life  of  the  world  is  sad,  and  unbeautiful. — 
I  have  been  thinking  of  resigning  for  some  time,  Alec : 
it  was  really  only  because  of  you  that  I  stayed.  Now, 
there  is  nothing  else  for  me  to  do  but  to  go.  God 
has  shown  me:  it  was  a  sign,  the  girl's  death.  And 
the  sermon.  I  speak  here  to  deaf  ears. ' ' 

"Couldn't  you  stay,  though,  just  a  little  longer?" 
Alec  was  seized  with  that  same  capricious  teasing 
wish  to  turn  the  priest's  will. 

"No.  I  would  not.  I  have  already  written  to  the 
bishop." 


254  BRUTE  GODS 

"Where  will  you  go?" 

"To  Webley.  I  shall  join  the  Order.  It's  not 
really  such  a  sudden  decision,  Alec.  For  some  while, 
as  I  said,  I — "  He  was  looking  on  the  ground,  and 
then  suddenly  raised  bright  eyes  to  the  boy — eyes  of 
a  peculiar  defenceless  shining.  "You  will  write  to 
me?  Very  soon,  I  mean.  I  feel  I  must  hear —  I 
believe  in  you,  Alec." 

"Well,  but —    You  can't  be  going  at  once." 

"No.  As  soon  as  I  can,  though.  I  don't  know. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  the  time.  How  long  will  you 
be  with — be  away?" 

"I  don't  know  either."  The  two-seater  car  ap- 
proached them. 

"You  will  write,  you  will  tell  me  everything?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Alec  vaguely  as  he  took  the  priest's 
hand. 

Father  Collett,  looking  after  the  receding  car,  felt 
that  he  could  forgive,  perhaps  all  too  easily,  Alec. 
He  could  not  forgive  Gillian,  nor  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MR.  CARLYON- WILLIAMS,  that  saviour  of 
a  crushed  life,  had  left  the  object  of  his 
salvation  in  Torquay,  and  was  himself  now 
returned  to  London.  He  found  it  easier  to  think  up 
to  his  ideals  of  the  situation  at  a  distance  from  it: 
besides,  those  last  days  in  Torquay  had  begun  to  be  a 
little  trying.  It  was  not  so  easy,  he  found,  to  sustain 
the  right  role  with  a  constant  audience  of  one,  and 
Miriam  sometimes  had  strange  moods.  His  profound 
understanding  of  women,  together  with  his  sensitive 
reaction  to  the  claims  of  his  convenience,  had  prompted 
him  to  leave  her  for  awhile.  He  had  parted  from  her 
with  the  utmost  tenderness,  a  tenderness  adequately 
enough  expressed  to  deserve  incorporation  in  his  next 
novel.  She  had  been  very  silent,  though — very:  her 
response  would  not  do  for  the  novel  at  all. 

One  afternoon  a  week  or  so  after  Alec's  departure 
for  London,  the  distinguished  author  was  sitting  in 
a  Club  named  by  literary  modesty  "The  Scribblers '/' 
giving  the  final  touch  to  one  of  his  articles  for  The 
Woman's  Republic.  At  intervals  he  would  keep  as- 
sembling his  equipment  for  confirmation  of  himself 
in  the  role  that  he  now  was  playing,  with  the  assur- 
ance of  a  much  more  habitual  practice,  for  an  audi- 
ence of  many.  He  had  passed  through  a  great  ex- 
perience, a  spiritual  experience  of  fine  flight  through 
the  arena  of  the  higher  moralities.  His  next  novel 

255 


256  BRUTE  GODS 

would  be  devoted  to  the  exposition  of  that  winged 
way.  He  might  call  it  that — "The  Winged  Way" — 
only  how  could  he  indicate,  on  the  cover,  that 
"Winged"  was  to  be  given  two  syllables?  "Wing'd 
Way"  wouldn't  do.  ...  "The  Release  of— of"— 
ah,  "Sabrina" — that  was  splendid,  because  Sabrina 
had  been  beneath  the  tides.  ' '  The  Release  of  Sabrina 
Wyeherly." — "  Sabrina 's  Release." — Better.  More 
distinctive.  He  took  a  bit  of  paper  from  his  pocket 
and  jotted  the  title  down.  "Winged  way,"  too:  he 
would  bring  that  in. 

Mr.  Carlyon-Williams  looked  at  his  hands.  They 
were  delicate  and  white.  He  had  just  been  washing 
them.  Hands  indicated  so  much:  he  had  certainly 
improved  the  look  of  his  by  squeezing  juice  from  a 
lemon  upon  them  every  night.  Now  he  would  be  able 
to  do  that  again.  Since  he  had  been  with  Miriam 
he  had  had  to  forego  the  lemon-juice.  The  odour  of 
it  was  noticeable,  besides  he  couldn't  have  risked  her 
seeing.  ...  A  great  experience.  Washing  his  hands 
in  the  Club  Lavatory,  he  had  looked  at  himself 
earnestly  in  the  glass.  His  good  looks  had  not  been 
affected  at  all;  not  unfavourably,  that  is.  They 
seemed  to  have  been  heightened,  rather,  to  something 
indefinably  better  and  nobler.  This  was  as  it  should 
be:  for  Mr.  Carlyon-Williams 's  expressed  philosophy 
largely  lay  in  a  steadfast  belief  in  himself  and  every 
one  else  on  his  horizon  being  better  and  nobler  than 
they  really  were.  Every  gesture  of  his,  every  tone 
of  his  voice,  even  the  way  he  brushed  his  pleasantly 
curling  hair,  betokened  this  philosophy. 


DISCLOSURES  257 

Miriam,  though.  .  .  .  He  could  not  make  her  fit, 
except  by  difficulties  that  were  really  awkward,  into 
his  scheme.  Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  manu- 
script on  his  knee,  he  frowned  slightly,  the  gaze  of  his 
artificially  fine  eyes  was  clouded,  his  uncontrolled 
mouth,  thin-lipp'd,  with  its  look  of  emotional  esuri- 
ence,  twitched  a  little.  Not  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  was  he  ruffled  and  disconcerted  by  the  fact  that 
women,  as  soon  as  you  got  on  really  serious  terms 
with  them,  never  behaved  as  you  had  planned  that  they 
should,  never  said  the  things  that  you  had,  so  to 
speak,  written  for  them.  Not  even  the  women  who 
had  been  his  most  whole-hearted  disciples,  the  most 
ardent  admirers  of  his  work.  His  wife,  for  instance. 
She  had  disappointed  him  the  most  of  all.  If  she 
had  really  been  so  enthusiastic  over  his  novels,  the 
least  she  could  have  done  was  to  behave  something 
like  the  people  in  them.  Of  course  the  great  mistake 
there  had  been  the  child — the  intrusion  of  the  child. 
A  mistake  he  would  never  repeat.  It  was  true  that 
the  amours  of  his  fiction  characters  were  never  rudely 
complicated  by  the  coming  of  children,  they  were  al- 
ways mysteriously  enriched.  Still,  the  love  of  the 
artist  himself  should  be  sterile. 

Mr.  Carlyon-Williams's  career  as  a  husband  had 
been  cut  short  rather  more  than  a  year  ago.  Re- 
sponsibility for  the  breach  rested  entirely  with  his 
wife's  singular  failure  to  realize  the  susceptibilities 
of  his  temperament.  He  had  found  it  impossible  to 
stay  with  her  during  her  confinement :  it  was  terrible 
to  this  expert  in  spiritual  suffering  to  come  within 


258  BRUTE  GODS 

the  grosser  ranges  of  physical  pain.  The  man  who 
had  celebrated  the  sacred  mysteries  of  motherhood  in 
half-a-dozen  novels  was  driven  post-haste  to  the 
Eiviera  by  the  prospect  of  his  wife's  initiation:  he 
could  not  but  deprive  himself  of  attendance  upon  all 
the  poetical  and  holy  circumstances  that  wait  on  the 
miracle  of  the  birth  of  a  child.  When  he  had  re- 
turned the  house  was  closed.  Mrs.  Carlyon- Williams 
had  gone  to  live  with  her  mother;  from  that  time  on 
she  had  refused  to  see  him. 

Nearly  half-past  five.  He  must  finish  revising  that 
article.  She  would  soon  be  there  for  it.  Now  why 
exactly  was  Gillian  coming,  why  did  she  want  to, 
what  did  it  mean  ?  He  had  offered  to  send  the  article 
to  her  Office;  he  had  had  a  certain  delicacy  about 
meeting  her  again  so  soon,  he  had  even  avoided  this 
Club  of  which  they  both  were  members.  But  "Oh, 
I  may  as  well  come, ' '  she  had  said :  "I  rather  want 
to  see  you."  Mr.  Williams,  pondering,  wished  she 
had  said  that  with  a  different  intonation.  The  words, 
even  over  the  telephone,  might  have  been  given  some 
undercurrent,  so  many  kinds  of  undercurrents. 
There  might  have  been  a  hint  of  something,  a  nuance, 
something  secret  and  subtle.  He  now,  even  in  the  few 
outwardly  unimportant  things  he  had  said  to  her.  .  .  . 
She  had  always  been  unfeminine,  had  Gillian:  but 
even  the  most  vauntedly  unfeminine  women  were  not 
unf eminine  to  him,  if  they  were  attractive ;  he  saw  to 
that.  At  least,  there  was  the  fact :  she  wanted  to  see 
him.  And  no  doubt  her  tone  was  merely  a  blind, 
she  had  protected  herself  by  it.  Well,  he  would  be 


DISCLOSURES  259 

dignified  and  aloof,  she  had  treated  him  very  badly, 
and  now  his  affair  with  Miriam  had  made  her  think 
better  of  it.  Perhaps  now.  .  .  .  Mr.  Williams  re- 
solved to  be  on  the  look-out.  And  he  would  be  care- 
ful to  hold  by  his  present  advantage  over  her;  she 
deserved  that  he  should.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  she  had  been 
cold  and  heartless!  Eeally,  he  should  never  have 
risked  being  involved  with  her,  why  had  he?  He 
meditated,  then  found  the  answer:  of  course  she  had 
wanted  to  pick  his  brains.  So  she  had  led  him  on, 
deceiving  him  through  his  love  of  beauty. 

Ah,  he  was  too  easily  exposed  to  beauty,  that  was 
it.  Miriam  ...  he  must  write  to  Miriam  tonight. 
A  pity  that  it  was  not  so  easy  or  so  exciting  to  write 
to  her  now  as  it  had  been  when  he  was  only  her  half- 
acknowledged  lover.  But  his  last  words  to  her  had 
been  that  he  would  write  every  day.  How  unfortu- 
nate— again  he  was  ruffled — that  when  he  had  prom- 
ised this  he  had  called  her  ' '  Gillian. ' '  The  two  names 
were  in  a  way  alike — not  an  unnatural  slip :  and  some- 
how the  parting  and  the  promise  to  write  had  re- 
minded him  of  Gillian.  Heaven  knew  the  two  women 
were  sufficiently  unlike,  though.  ...  At  least  Miriam 
was  womanly.  It,  was  indeed,  her  unquestionable 
womanliness  that  had  drawn  him  so  profoundly :  a  re- 
action from  Gillian 's  abruptness,  her  challenging  ways, 
her  casualness,  her  half-mocking  air  of  being  on  equal 
terms,  her  habit  of  taking  everything  for  granted, 
as  though  there  could  be  nothing  between  them  that 
really  mattered.  Miriam  was  tender  and  serious,  she 
had  the  true  romantic  depths,  her  appeal  was  in  the 


260  BRUTE  GODS 

names  of  Protection  and  Pity.  How  healing  she  had 
been  to  him  after  Gillian's  rebuffs!  Gillian,  who 
had  so  crudely  tripped  up  his  lovemaking  by  telling 
him  that  he  "didn't  amuse  her,  not  in  that  way." 
Actually,  when  he  had  come  down  specially  to  Mal- 
stowe,  for  the  week  when  she  was  to  be  there,  she 
had  said  that.  "Oh,  Carl,  you  mustn't,  I'm  only 
human!"  was  what  she  should  have  said.  As  it  was, 
of  course  everything  was  over — and  almost  immedi- 
ately there  had  followed  the  revelation  of  Miriam 
Glaive.  Miriam  of  course  was  very  wonderful.  .  .  . 
Confound  that  girl,  she  had  put  him  out  of  gear,  she 
had  brought  it  all  back,  he  didn't  want  to  see  her, 
his  delicacy  had  prompted  him  rightly.  Perhaps  she 
had  telephoned  to  him  out  of  deliberate  malice  and 
mischief.  Still,  it  might  be  that  she  ...  it  might 
be.  .  .  He  set  himself  to  the  article. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  was  conscious 
of    Gillian,    Mr.    Carlyon-Williams    con- 
tinued his  task  without  looking  up.     She 
was  almost  at  his  elbow  before  he  raised  his  eyes. 
He  gave  a  little  start,  he  was  mildly  taken  aback, 
then   he   rose,   faintly  smiling,   as   though   she   had 
brought  him  up  to  the  surface  of  a  deep  dream. 

"I  hope  I  may  say— 'Well  met'?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't.  Have  you 
done  with  this?" 

She  put  out  her  hand  for  the  manuscript.  He 
watched  her  with  gravity  well  poised,  and  was  glad 
to  see  that  she  seemed  a  little  nervous. 

"There  are  still  the  last  paragraphs.  But  I 
think  they  can  stand. ' '  He  bestowed  the  article  upon 
her.  "We  might — perhaps — as  you  wished  to  see 
me."  They  moved  to  a  more  secluded  corner.  It 
was  one  of  the  less  frequented  upstairs  rooms  of  the 
Club,  and  now,  in  August,  practically  deserted.  Mr. 
Carlyon-Willams,  prompted  by  his  susceptibilities, 
remained  standing.  "You  still  have  the  hands  of  a 
Tanagra  statuette," — his  voice  was  low — "a  statuette 
of  pale  bronze." 

' '  No  new  tricks  since  I  last  saw  you  ? ' ' 

"  'Tricks'!"  He  drew  back,  aggrieved.  "It  has 
not  been  a  time  for  tricks — new  or  old." 

261 


262  BRUTE  GODS 

1 '  Oh,  that 's  just  what  I  should  have  thought  it  had 
been.  New  and  old.  You  don't  think  I  remember?" 

"Ah,  you  were  always  determined  to  misunder- 
stand!" 

She  had  attacked  him  at  once,  she  must  be  in  love 
with  him!  Mr.  Carlyon-Williams  trusted  in  the 
literary  rule  of  thumb  that  a  woman  never  attacks 
a  man  unless  she's  either  in  love  with  him  or  so  much 
piqued  by  him  that  it  amounts  to  practically  the  same 
thing.  "Don't  you  think  I  remember?"  she  had 
said :  she  had  taken  him  back  to  that  time  of  theirs.  .  . . 
Of  course  she  was  reacting  from  his  capture  of  Miriam. 
He  gave  her  one  of  his  deep  looks.  Certainly  she  was 
on  edge — not  quite  controlled.  He  could  tell  by  her 
lips.  Their  disdainful  flicker  had  both  excited  and 
affronted  him :  now  he  was  affronted  no  longer. 

"Since  our  last  meeting — "  He  lowered  his  voice 
again,  he  meant  to  be  a  little  cruel.  "Since  then,  I 
have  voyaged  very  far." 

"Have  you?  Ah,  you  mean  spiritually,  of  course. 
At  least  I  haven't  misunderstood  you  there — I 
couldn't."  Her  laugh  discomposed  him:  it  was  not 
in  the  right  tone. 

"You  belittle  everything,"  he  told  her.  "Is  that 
the  way  to  reach  to  whatever  value  and  beauty  Life 
holds?  Always  to  dispraise,  to  make  a  mock — " 

He  went  on,  but  her  thoughts  were  with  Alec's 
stepmother.  All  her  interest  in  Carlyon-Williams 
was  strained  through  Alec.  She  had  come  to  see  him 
under  the  pressure  of  her  sense  of  the  new  startling 
relation  sprung  up  between  them  from  her  love  for 


DISCLOSURES  263 

the  boy  whose  father's  wife  he  had  taken:  she  had 
wanted  to  know  if  Williams  had,  after  all,  been  capable 
of  doing  this  serious  thing  seriously,  of  accepting 
seriously  what  had  been  done  for  him.  She  knew 
well  enough  why  he  had  never  been  able  to  reach  to 
herself :  because  he  had  never  had  the  courage  to  give 
himself  up,  because  he  had  always  remembered  that 
the  right  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  play  the  god  be- 
fore women,  and  that  love  was  an  occasion  for  beauti- 
ful sentiments.  He  had  been  afraid  of  that  passionate 
clear  forth-swept  adoration  by  which  Alec  had  won 
her — afraid  of  its  strength,  afraid  of  its  marring  of 
his  role.  Gillian  did  not  then  admit  that  Carlyon- 
Williams,  if  different  in  this,  could  have  been  loved 
by  her;  but  the  concealed  contingency  affected  her, 
and  had  sharpened  her  curiosity  about  Williams 's 
emotion  for  Mrs.  Glaive.  She  had  wanted,  even 
jealously,  a  little,  to  find  out  if  this  adventure  proved 
him  capable  of  love;  if  he  had  given  to  Alec's  step- 
mother what  he  had  so  utterly  failed  to  offer  to  her. 
But,  for  Alec 's  sake,  she  hoped  that  he  had ;  for  Alec 's 
sake  she  wanted  him  to  treat  Mrs.  Glaive  well,  not 
simply  to  go  on  playing  the  god  to  her,  for  she 
couldn't  live  on  that  nor  stayvin  it.  The  poor  woman 
must  have  looked  for  romance,  for  some  great  emanci- 
pation through  love,  some  deep  equalizing  of  all  Life 's 
issues  for  her;  and  if  she  found  that  what  she  had 
got  was  something  trifling  and  wordy,  a  thing  of 
mock  flights  and  mock  subtleties  and  weak  desire  in 
mask —  What  would  she  do  then?  And  how  would 
Alec  be  implicated?  "What  will  she  do?"  Gillian 


264  BRUTE  GODS 

now  asked,  for  here  was  Hugh.  Carlyon- Williams 
talking  on  in  quite  the  old  style,  not  altered  in  the 
least,  making  great  play,  at  that  moment,  with  those 
pompous  monsters,  the  "eternal  verities."  And  he 
had  begun  a  toying  of  sentiment  with  her  at  once. 

Mr.  Williams  continued  to  expound  the  wonder  and 
beauty  and  truth  of  his  far  voyage.  "I  can  talk  to 
you."  He  was  sitting  by  her  now,  leaning  close. 
"You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world  with  whom  I 
could  talk  so  about  another  woman  and  myself." 
("But  you've  said  absolutely  nothing  that  I  couldn't 
have  guessed  you  would  say,"  she  thought.)  "You 
and  you  alone  can  understand  the — the  inevitability 
of  this  thing.  It  was  inevitable,  as  great  artistic 
creations  are.  Yes,  it  had  to  be.  A  call  that  com- 
pelled :  we  'could  no  other. '  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  that  you  came  today,  Gillian.  You've  brought 
me  just  the  expression — the  purge  of  my  feeling — 
that  I  needed.  And  you've  made  me  realize  the  beau- 
tiful separateness  and  rarity  of  that  strange  special 
relation  we  bear  to  one  another.  Nothing,  of  course, 
can  ever  affect  that.  It  will  always  stand,  untouched, 
unshaken,  whatever  happens.  We  poor  frail  accre- 
tions of  humanity!  How  our  poverty  and  frailness 
scatter  from  us  at  one  single  sweet  breath  of  that 
sympathy  we  know!  Yes,  some  things  are  eternally 
true." 

He  proceeded  to  caress  their  sympathies,  while  the 
girl  kept  wondering,  more  baffled  than  before,  why 
he  had  run  off  with  the  stepmother.  There  couldn't 
have  been  force  enough  in  himself  for  that.  Of  course 


DISCLOSURES  265 

Gillian  knew  that  it  was  out  of  pique  at  his  failure 
with  her  that  the  man  had  begun  to  take  his  affair  with 
Mrs.  Glaive  seriously;  but  neither  pique  nor  his  love 
of  a  theatrical  coup  projecting  himself  postured  in 
the  high-lights  could  account  for  the  Carlyon-Williams 
that  she  knew  having  committed  himself  so  far  and 
so  palpably — facing  scandal  that  might  hurt  him, 
risking  a  divorce  suit.  There  must  have  been  some 
extraordinary  determination,  some  intense  driving 
force  from  the  woman,  driving  with  fury  out  of  sup- 
pression. Or  perhaps  she  had  got  him  into  a  position 
from  which  he  couldn't  draw  back  without  looking 
ridiculous.  .  .  .  Alec  had  never  told  her  anything 
that  made  his  stepmother  in  the  least  definite:  she 
had  asked  him,  she  had  found  it  odd  that  he  had  so 
little  to  say. 

"What  is  she  like?"  Gillian  interrupted  suddenly. 
"I  can't  see  why  you're  not  with  her  now." 

"Oh,  I  return — I  return  very  soon.  It  would 
hardly  do  for  me  to  lose  touch  with — with — " 

"With  the  literary  life  of  the  metropolis.  Of 
course  not.  Besides,  you  had  to  see  how  people  were 
taking  it — to  feel  the  public  pulse.  Naturally.  But 
tell  me  something  about  her." 

' '  Surely,  Gillian,  from  what  I  've  said  you  must  have 
gathered — " 

"I  haven't  gathered  anything.  You  might  have 
been  talking  of  yourself  and  any  woman  in  the  world. 
I  suppose  you'd  be  bound  to  talk  in  exactly  the  same 
way,  whoever  the  woman  was." 

"Egoism  is  hardly  one  of  my  failings."     Mr.  Wil- 


266  BRUTE  GODS 

liams  secretly  expanded  under  this  fresh  attack.  He 
was  sure  she  must  care.  "But  to  describe  Miriam — " 

"Yes,  in  detail,  quite  simply." 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  He  was  lightly  reproachful. 
"How  can  I?  I  am  too — too  near  to  her,  as  it  were, 
surely  you  can  see — •"  It  was  clear  to  Mr.  Williams 's 
delicacy  that  his  giving  Gillian  a  detailed  and  simple 
description  of  Miriam  would  be  unbecoming.  His 
impressionist  picture  of  vague  emotional  complexities 
had  been  another  affair  altogether.  "No,  don't  ask 
me.  Really,  it  would  mean  nothing." 

"Well.  Tell  me,"— she  breathed  hard— "tell  me 
about  her  family." 

"Oh,  the  family!"  Mr.  Carlyon-Williams  felt 
positively  triumphant.  Gillian's  insistence — her  evi- 
dent agitation — it  could  only  mean  one  thing.  "I 
found  her  crushed  and  cramped  by  her  family.  Ah, 
my  dear,  what  hideous  sacrifices  family  life  demands ! 
She  was  in  terrible  spiritual  suffering — terrible  and 
constant.  At  once,  I  knew;  and  she  knew  my  sym- 
pathy. Her  husband — a  vile  little  snob,  nearly  twice 
her  age,  a  withered  mean  little  soul,  a  vampire  of 
egoism  for  her,  sucking  the  blood  of  her  every  aspira- 
tion, her  every —  But  you  must  have  seen  him  and  the 
others  when  you  were — " 

"Oh,  hardly — in  the  most  cursory  sort  of  way. 
j " 

She  bit  her  lip  and  paled,  while  Mr.  Williams  noted 
these  fresh  indications  of  his  victory  upon  her.  Of 
course  it  was  all  because  of  his  having  taken  Miriam. 


DISCLOSURES  267 

How  strange  women  were,  how  erratic,  how  incalcula- 
ble, how  fascinating  in  their  convolutions! 

"I've  never  been  in  the  house,"  she  added  rapidly. 

"It  is  a  prison,"  he  declared.  "Nothing  can  go 
free  there,  neither  heart  nor -soul  nor  spirit.  In  that 
house — it  is  really  terrible,  Gillian — you  have  the 
sense  of  there  not  being  room  for  anything 
noble  or  fine.  And  she  was  shut  up  there.  I  thank 
heaven  that  I  could  be  the  instrument  of  her  release. 
The  highest  service  that  I  have  ever  been  allowed.  .  .  . 
Why,  her  soul  was  gradually  wasting  away!  Her 
heart  was  being  drained  dry  I ' '  Mr.  Williams 's  words 
reassured  him. 

"How  about  the  rest  of  the  family?"  Gillian  felt 
uneasy  and  caught. 

"Oh,  there  was  a — a  sort  of  an  aunt.  A  most 
poisonous  and  malevolent  old  widow  who  combined 
with  that  weasel  of  a  husband  to  make  Miriam's  life 
intolerable. — Why  should  we  speak  of  such  people? 
I  can  only  feel  grateful  beyond  measure  that  Miriam 
is  at  last  clear  of  them  all.  Really  it  is  marvellous 
that  she  hadn't  been  wrecked  altogether — " 

"Weren't  there — I  thought  there  were  some  boys." 

"Oh,  the  stepson.  A  young  fellow  with  a  lacka- 
daisically insulting  manner.  Blue  eyes,  pink  cheeks, 
hair  almost  flaxen — you  know — the  complete  Saxon 
type.  They  ought  never  to  be  allowed  to  grow  up. 
'Not  Angles,  but  angels'  is  all  very  well  when  they're 
little  boys.  Later  on,  it's  the  most  unsympathetic 
type  I  know.  She  had  no  comfort  in  him,  I'm  sure 


268  BRUTE  GODS 

of  that.  That  kind  of  boy  doesn't  know  what  sym- 
pathy means — no  Celtic  feeling.  I  disliked  him  at 
once.  Lackadaisical  and  slangy,  no  brains  whatever. 
A  mere  surface.  He  was  in  the  war,  of  course ;  much 
good  it 's  done  him ! ' ' 

' '  He  has  a  brother,  hasn  't  he  ? " 

"My  dear  girl," — "Williams  was  beginning  to  be 
bored — "really  I  take  no  particular  note  of  school- 
boys. I  always  imagined  that  schools  existed  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  them  out  of  sight.  The  younger 
boy — I  suppose  he  was  inking  his  fingers  in  some  class- 
room or  other;  anyhow,  I  hardly  saw  him." 

"You  did.     You  must  have,  I  mean." 

' '  Oh,  yes.  I  dimly  recall  a  gauche  youth  with  long 
legs  and  reddish  sort  of  hair.  Very  shy.  He  blushed 
and  gulped. — I'm  afraid  I  neglected  any  analysis  of 
his  personality." 

Gillian  turned  her  head  and  shielded  her  face,  lean- 
ing on  her  elbow.  She  was  scarlet.  She  was  furious 
with  Williams,  he  had  ridiculed  her.  And  Alec 's  hair 
was  beautiful :  any  one  would  say  so.  She  must  hurt 
Carlyon- Williams  somehow:  not  only  his  odiously 
tolerant  ridicule,  but  his  exaggeration  of  Alec's  youth, 
enraged  her;  it  turned  all  her  doubts  back  on  to  her 
with  sharpened  and  agonizing  edge. 

"And  now — "  Mr.  Williams,  his  eyes  resting  on 
the  girl 's  averted  head — what  delicious  hair  she  had ! 
— spoke  with  discreet  tenderness.  "Now  tell  me 
about  yourself." 

"Oh,  come,  that's  good  of  you!"  She  looked  up, 
and  catching  his  expression,  was  seized,  for  all  her 


DISCLOSURES  269 

violence  of  trouble  and  suffering  and  rage,  with  a 
deliberate,  a  wicked  desire  to  be  provocative,  to  move 
his  blood.  "You  really  do  want  to  know  about  me?" 

"Of  course."  He  leaned  to  her,  responding  to  the 
mood  that  her  look  had  given  him — a  response  of 
readier  verve  because  of  her  contrast  with  Miriam, 
who  never  could  have  looked  like  that,  so  enticingly 
young  and  flushed  and  tumbled.  "You  know  that 
our  shared  hours  are  indestructible  for  me,  whatever 
happens.  Gillian — "  Her  drooped  hand  was  vivid 
to  his  senses,  and  he  only  just  saved  himself  from 
repeating  his  remark  about  the  Tanagra  statuette,  in 
the  agitation  of  the  moment.  Instead,  he  touched  her 
hand,  very  lightly. 

"Oh,  no!" 

She  drew  away  sharply.  She  felt  ashamed  of  her- 
self, grossly  disgusted  by  her  instant  success  in  turn- 
ing him  that  way.  "I'm  a  courtezan,"  she  thought. 
"I  must  have  the  nature  of  a  courtezan."  And, 
looking  at  Carlyon-Williams  with  eyes  clear  of  any 
sex-attraction  for  him,  she  was  impressed  by  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  spectacle  presented  by  a  desirous  man : 
he  seemed  so  intent,  so  hot,  so  babyishly  grave,  so  fret- 
ted, but  so  comically  holding  himself  together,  even 
with  a  sort  of  spurious  dignity — 

"You  mistake  me,  Gillian."  Williams  broke  the 
pause,  during  which  he  had  been  thinking  out  the 
best  line  to  take  with  her.  "I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
— a  little — the  thoughts  I  have  of  you.  I  am  alto- 
gether loyal  to  Miriam,  but  your  sphere  and  hers  are 
far  apart.  There  can  be  no  conflict  for  me  there. 


270  BRUTE  GODS 

You  mean  something  to  me  that  is  far  beyond  any 
mere  physical  rapport.  You — " 

He  broke  off,  halted  by  the  fresh  stir  that  the  now 
receding  flush  of  her  clear  cheeks  made  in  him.  Those 
lively  fluctuations  of  light  in  her  eyes  disconcerted  his 
eloquence,  so  did  the  little  quick  ripples  that  would 
keep  going  about  her  throat  and  breast. 

''It's  something  that  goes  far  past  the  common  sex- 
excitement,"  he  resumed,  recovering  himself.  "Oh, 
altogether  outsoaring  that!"  He  trembled :  he  opened 
greedy  arms  to  his  exaltation  that  he  really  believed 
in  as  pure.  "How  often  I  have  dreamed  that  we 
might>—  " 

"I'm  afraid  you  flatter  us  both  too  much.  You 
— oh,  well!"  Gillian,  for  all  her  recognition  of  his 
humbug,  for  all  her  antagonism,  could  not  help  being 
gratified  and  pleased  by  the  appeal,  but  she  steadied 
herself  by  reflecting  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  telling 
that  could  be  offered  to  a  woman's  sex-vanity. 

"I  really — "  Williams,  noting  his  effect,  and 
thinking  her  rejoinder  extremely  promising,  leaned 
to  her.  "This  coarser  and  cruder  sense-passion — in 
my  truer  moments  I  am  filled  with  detestation  of 
it!  I  know,  and  you  know — how  intrinsically  stale 
and  vulgar — " 

"  'Vulgar'!"  The  girl,  remembering,  turned  from 
him,  and  her  eyes  shone.  "Oh,  you  know  nothing 
about  it,  then — nothing!" 

"My  boy!"  she  thought,  and  again,  as  for  the  first 
time  in  the  Tower  moat,  she  felt  that  tremor  rise  and 
break  through  her ;  but  now  she  clutched  at  her  sense 


DISCLOSURES  271 

of  it,  in  new  knowledge,  with  a  grinding  tenacity  to 
which  she  had  since  grown.  Mr.  Carlyon-Williams 
exulted.  He  could  do  anything  with  her  now!  The 
signs  were  unmistakeable.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
that  fervent  praise  of  chaste  love  had  brought  him 
a  woman's  surrender.  Hot  and  heavy  with  thoughts 
of  their  next  appointment,  "Oh,  my  darling!"  he 
whispered. 

"Oh!"  She  sprang  up,  she  shocked  him  by  her 
look  of  genuine  anger — a  look  that  held  its  ground 
against  his  perplexed  disappointment,  while  her  mind 
framed:  "How  dare  you?"  "What  do  you  think 
I  am?" — all  the  conventionalities  of  indignant  pro- 
test. "You  don't  know,"  she  said  instead,  haltingly. 

"What,  Gillian,  what?"    He  rose  slowly. 

"Oh,  I  belong  to  some  one  else,  altogether!" 

' '  Whal^-  ? "  He  groped,  he  felt  a  fool.  ' '  What  am 
I  to  understand  by  that?" 

"Oh,  you  can  understand  all  that  there  is  to  be 
understood. ' ' 

"A  lover — you  mean — fully?" 

"Fully;  yes." 

"Oh,  Gillian!     You!" 

He  sank  heavily  into  the  chair,  and  put  his  hand 
over  his  face.  For  all  the  theatricality  of  the  gesture, 
he  was  hard  hit.  He  had  seemed  so  near :  and  even  at 
the  times  when,  before,  he  had  given  up  hope  of  her,  his 
consolation  had  been  that  she  was  invincibly  cold. 
He  had  thus  spared  himself  the  sense  of  personal  de- 
feat, and  he  could  endure  the  thought  of  her  as  un- 
attainable by  him  if  she  were  unattainable  by  any 


272  BRUTE  GODS 

one  else.  He  could  even  make  for  himself  something 
fine  out  of  this,  something  worthy  of  inclusion  in  his 
biography  as  a  rare  spiritual  relation,  the  relation 
he  had  been  talking  of,  one  shining  especially  for 
him,  in  unique  pale  lustre  .  .  .  the  love  of  a  moon- 
maiden,  a  matter  for  literary  pride.  He  had  con- 
vinced himself,  in  spite  of  every  difficulty  she  had 
thrust  against  him,  that  he  was  and  must  always  be 
the  nearest  to  a  lover  that  her  nature  could  accept. 
In  that  conviction  he  had  rested,  content  with  the  idea 
that  he  could  always  come  back  to  her  and  touch  her 
hand  and  find  it  virgin.  He  had  wished  to  come  back 
to  her  in  this  way,  not  now,  of  course,  but  after  a 
decent  interval.  .  .  .  So  this  was  why  she  had  "  rather 
wanted  to  see"  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  girl  had  no  feeling, 
no  sensitiveness  of  fibre  .  .  .  cruel.  He  had  dreamed 
of  her  as  always  untouched,  with  himself  in  this 
distinguished  close  relation  to  her  being  so,  himself 
understanding  it  all  with  such  completeness.  And 
now —  Mr.  Williams,  like  Mr.  Glaive,  sided  vehe- 
mently with  morality.  He  forgot  all  about  the  recent, 
the  earthier  emotions  in  which  Gillian  had  moved 
him.  He  sat  with  bowed  head,  redeemed  for  the 
moment  from  his  flimsiness,  overcome  by  the  blank 
finality  of  his  loss.  Alec  had  avenged  his  father. 

When  the  smitten  idealist  looked  up,  Gillian  was 
sitting  opposite  him  reading  his  article. 

"Of  course  it's  nothing  to  you,"  he  said,  strug- 
gling against  the  peevish  tone  provoked  by  her  heart- 
less composure. 

"My  dear  Carl!"    She  was  light-hearted  then  be- 


DISCLOSURES  273 

cause  of  her  relief  in  having  told  him  and  punished 
him.  And  she  couldn  't  pursue  revenge  with  Carlyon- 
Williams:  once  having  hit  him,  she  had  to  treat  it 
as  a  joke.  "For  a  man  who's  been  married  and  sep- 
arated and  then  run  off  with  somebody  else's  wife, 
I  must  say  you're  rather  exacting." 

"You  invoke  common  standards?"  Carlyon-Wil- 
liams  looked  shocked.  "You  know  how  all  that — " 
— he  waved  his  past  from  him — "how  it  made  its  way 
on  me." 

Gillian  knew  how,  more  or  less,  but  she  was  in  no 
mood  for  the  emotional  elaborations  that  would  follow 
any  reminder.  ' '  "Well, ' '  she  said  lightly,  with  a  wil- 
ful flick  of  the  whip,  "haven't  I  been  'made  way  on' 
too?" 

"Ah,  but — but  you — a  girl." 

"Miriam  Glaive's  sex  is  not  in  doubt,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  Gillian,  I  won't  argue  with  you!  We're  be- 
yond that,  we're  beyond  words.  I  had  dreamed  that 
we  might — but  alas  for  dreams! — To  think  that  you 
came  to  see  me  out  of  simple  cruelty ! ' ' 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't — not  in  the  least!  It  was  be- 
cause— well — "  She  was  at  a  loss;  nothing  would 
have  induced  her  to  tell  him  that  her  lover  was  Alec 
Glaive.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  have  imagined  that  you'di 
mind  my  being — being  involved,  when  you're  so  very 
deep  in  yourself." 

"Ah,  well!  I  suppose  that  now  we  must  always  be 
far  apart,  calling  to  one  another  from  distant  peaks. 
I  knew  you  had  changed,"  he  said  sadly.  "And  you 
are  sure  you  have  really  found — the  great  secret?" 


274  BRUTE  GODS 

"You  can  afford  to  patronize  me,  of  course.  When 
one  has  found  it  a  dozen  times  or  so — when  the  dis- 
covery is  quite  habitual — " 

"Gillian,  is  this  generous  of  you?"  There  she 
was  again,  as  in  the  old  days,  tripping  up  his  senti- 
ments and  emotions,  tumbling  them  flat  over  on  to 
their  faces.  "When  you  know  what  I  must  be  feel- 
ing—  But  be  sure,"  he  went  on  weightily,  "that  if 
indeed  you  have — if  you  are — then  there  is  no  one 
more  unfeignedly  glad  for  you  than  I."  He  looked 
at  her  searchingly,  with  veiled  calculation.  Perhaps 
some  wave  of  reaction  against  surrender  and  passion 
might  bear  her  to  him  yet.  "Surely  you  know  that 
I  can  understand — " 

"Oh,  but  you  can't,  you  never  could — I'm  sure! 
That's  what  I  always  knew,  that's  why —  You,  with 
your  ideas,  your  ideals,  your  continual  deferring  to 
them  of  everything  you  begin  to  feel,  your  continual 
forcing  into  them  of  every  one  and  everything  that 
comes  to  you !  That  unfortunate  woman ! ' ' 

"She  does  not  consider  herself  so.     She  was." 

"I  dare  say!  That's  the  whole  pity  of  it."  Gil- 
lian, in  sudden  renewal  of  the  agitation  that  her  dis- 
closure to  Williams  had  quelled,  felt  her  whole  body 
strain  and  tingle.  She  cast  about  for  an  outlet.  Wil- 
liams hurried  his  defences  against  the  polemic  readi- 
ness of  her  mouth,  against  the  lighted  threat  of  her 
eyes  that  seemed  to  hold  the  start  of  the  spring  she 
was  drawn  together  for.  "Look  at  the  kind  of  people 
who  come  here!"  she  burst  out.  "Our  kind.  What 


DISCLOSURES  275 

do  you  think  they  can  do  for  any  society,  for  any  in- 
dividual?" 

"My  dear  girl,  you  really  cannot  make  me  answer- 
able—" 

"I  hate  the  sight  of  them.  They  injure  me — they 
degrade  me,  can  you  understand?  ever  since — since 
he  came.  Can't  you  see  that  they've  got  all  the 
hypocrisies  and  sentimentalisms  of  conventional  peo- 
ple, they  can't  have  their  little  'immoralities'  with- 
out pretence  any  more  than  a  stockbroker  can.  I 
won't  tell  them  anything!"  she  added  fiercely.  "I 
won't  have  them  pretending  about  me,  fingering  us 
over!" 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say."  Carlyon- 
Williams  was  not  ill  pleased.  His  vanity  was  incom- 
patible with  a  high  opinion  of  his  contemporaries.  ' '  I 
have  certainly  felt,  myself — " 

"Oh,  you!  What  have  you  done  but  take  ad- 
vantage of  it  all?  You  make  copy  out  of  it!  All 
this  looseness  of  mind,  this  horrible  mixture  of  sen- 
timentality and  slack  sensualism  that  has  to  have  its 
gilding.  You  feed  on  it  all  the  time,  you  live  on  it! 
With  your  stories  of  these  free,  modern  men  and 
women,  these  pretty  ones  who  'out  of  the  conscious- 
ness of  their  new  age' — " 

' '  You  are  most  unjust. ' '  Williams  flushed  angrily. 
It  did  seem  unpardonably  unfair,  this  striking  him 
in  the  face  with  a  quotation  from  that  article  she 
had  just  been  reading.  "Because  you  have  a  lover, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  turn  on  an  old  friend." 


276  BRUTE  GODS 

1 '  I  want  to  turn  on  everything ! ' '  Looking  hard  at 
the  man,  she  longed  to  turn  on  him  most  of  all,  to 
assault  his  plumed  personality,  to  lay  violent  hands  on 
it.  But  the  touch  of  that  personality  numbed  her 
fingers,  made  them  blunt  and  impotent,  with  the  nor 
warm  nor  cold  numbness  of  a  limb  that  has  "fallen 
asleep."  "I  can't  take  hold  of  you,"  she  cried, 
"you're  drugged! — What  a  mess  we're  all  of  us 
in!" 

"My  dear  girl!"  Mr.  Carlyon-Williams,  who  had 
been  standing  very  upright  before  Gillian  since  her 
offence  of  him,  sat  down  again  and  drew  his  chair  to 
her.  "I — I  think  you  want  me  to  help  you,  to  try 
to  help  you,  don't  you?"  He  indicated  to  her,  deli- 
cately, a  ministering  hand.  "You  have  been  thrown, 
I  can  see,  into  a  ferment — " 

"Not  your  kind  of  ferment,  though.  I  don't  deal 
in  your  emotional  specialities,  as  I've  told  you  before. 
It's  simply  that  I've  never  been  so  unbearably  sick- 
ened by  this  perpetual  fake  that  you  and  all  the  rest 
of  them  keep  up,  of  doing  everything  from  the  highest 
motives!  You  yourself — I  suppose  you've  been  in 
love  with  a  dozen  women  at  least,  but  then  of  course 
you've  had  the  highest  ideals  of  all  of  them ! — "Whether 
it's  taking  some  one  else's  wife  or  husband,  or  keeping 
a  mistress  or  leaving  one,  there  has  to  be  this  per- 
petual attempt  at  sublimation,  and  it  rots  you  all!" 
She  clenched  her  fist,  and  her  voice  rose  so  sharply 
that  Williams  gave  a  glance  round  the  room.  "Any- 
thing would  be  better.  Why  can't  you  any  of  you 
simply  do  what  you  want  to  do  and  keep  quiet  ?  But 


DISCLOSURES  277 

it  has  to  be  in  the  name  of  some  new  revelation, 
some  higher  law!  It's  better  to  be  afraid  of  scandal 
than  to  have  to  lean  on  that  kind  of  humbug ! ' ' 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Gillian.  Sincerity  is  my 
whole  aim — " 

"We  must  have  some  tightening  of  the  strings." 
She  threw  back  her  head,  she  looked  on  past  Williams, 
seeming  to  leave  him  out  of  count,  annoying  him  so 
much  that  he  resolved  not  to  listen  to  what  she  said. 
"We  must  get  it  somehow — or  it'll  mean  that  the 
huge  effort  of  the  war  will  simply  have  done  for  us 
altogether.  We  people —  After  all,  what  do  we  do, 
for  all  our  talk?  We've  lost  the  courage  even  to  be 
wicked.  We  creep  into  all  our  passions  by  the  back 
doors,  we've  lost  the  power  of  defying  or  accepting, 
we're  not  safe  without  our  texts  on  the  wall  to  re- 
mind us  and  keep  us  in  countenance." 

"Good  heavens!  If  you  include  me — as  if  I  ever 
aimed  at  safety!"  Mr.  Williams  felt  it  very  nec- 
essary to  impress  himself  at  that  moment.  Again 
she  provoked  his  senses,  and  now  he  knew  it  was  no 
use  being  provoked.  That  intransigeant  look  of  hers 
had  always  whipped  him  amorously,  and  in  her 
present  vivid  excitement  of  hostility  she  breathed  her- 
self too  fully  out  for  his  peace  of  mind,  she  came  too 
physically  against  him  through  the  mobilities  of  her 
mouth,  the  shining  and  moistening  of  her  eyes,  all  the 
pressures  of  her  unruliness.  His  susceptibility  to 
beauty  sometimes  made  uncalled  for  demonstrations. 
"I  defy  and  I  accept  with  absolute  freedom  and 
courage. ' ' 


278  BRUTE  GODS 

"Ah,  but  you  haven't  the  courage  to  stand  on 
your  own  feelings  and  face  them  as  yours.  You 
never  had,  that  was  always  the  trouble.  If  only 
your  idealisms  hadn  't  sophisticated  you  in  that  way. ' ' 

She  stopped,  struck  by  her  having  taken  from  the 
boy  that  direct  strong  passion  which  this  man,  with 
his  thwarting  mania  for  Platonic  heights  and  am- 
biguous fine  involutions  had  had  to  withhold  from  her ; 
struck  by  the  cruel  irony  of  her  not  being  able  to 
keep  the  boy's  gift,  not  being  able  to  sustain  in  Alec 
all  that  she  could  so  well  have  held  fast  by  in  an  older 
lover.  Alec  soon  would  know  the  inequality  that  she 
knew  now,  the  edges  of  that  inequality  would  show — 
ah,  they  were  showing ! — with  the  lifting  of  the  mists 
of  his  first  fervours.  Young  love — she  couldn't  give 
him  young  love  that  he  needed:  she  had  hoodwinked 
him  with  a  counterfeit,  and  he'd  find  her  out.  Gil- 
lian's state  was  indeed,  as  Williams  had  said,  one  of 
"ferment";  but  all  the  suffering  of  the  ferment  came, 
not  from  her  passion,  but  from  her  terrible  and  haunt- 
ing insecurity.  She  had  begun  to  feel  appallingly 
caught.  More  and  more  cruelly  she  was  rent  by  the 
conviction  that  real  completion  of  love  was  impossible 
here,  for  all  her  surrender  and  his.  Her  experience, 
her  brain,  had  spoiled  her  for  taking  immediate  joy  as 
itself,  spoiled  her  for  living  in  the  simple  beauty  of 
the  moment.  She  could  wish,  now,  that  this  had 
never  happened  to  them.  She  could  even  reproach 
Williams  for  not  having  been  strong  and  clear  enough 
to  give  her  what  might  have  saved  her  from  this. 
She  was  in  suffering  of  a  stroke  clear  from  Nature, 


DISCLOSURES  279 

a  stroke  that  could  have  fallen  upon  her  in  what  con- 
dition soever  of  society  or  morals.  This  she  knew, 
and  knowing,  she  struck  out  in  a  harried  abjuring  of 
what  was  to  her  now  the  poor  littleness  of  moral  re- 
form, moral  revolution.  She  was  constrained  to  an 
attack  upon  efforts  the  success  or  failure  of  which 
could  mean  nothing  to  her — nothing  really  deeply  to 
any  one,  so  her  thoughts  cried  out. 

Carlyon- Williams,  meanwhile,  had  been  protesting 
to  inattentive  ears  his  innocence  of  sophistication  and 
his  profound  conviction  of  the  value  of  true  courage. 

"All  the  same,"  she  interrupted  him,  "there's  no 
real  courage  left.  It's  the  most  ridiculous  of  all 
periods!" 

"Oh,  come!"  Mr.  Williams  remembered  his 
written  word.  "It's  the  greatest  period  of  recon- 
struction ever  seen — so  much  that's  in  formation, 
so  much  that's  being  tested.  An  age  of  new  insight, 
new  demands.  And  everywhere  minorities  are  wrest- 
ling for  the  control  of  the  future.  You  can't  be- 
lieve that  we  strive  vainly,  you  used  not  to  think  so. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  used  to  think  that  marriage  reform  and  the 
motto  of  'Every  woman  her  own  breadwinner'  would 
save  us  all.  But  we  are  ridiculous.  We  just  twitter, 
and  play  with  our  brains,  we're  as  useless  for  our- 
selves as  we  are  for  what  we  call  'society.'  We  go 
perching  on  one  and  another  of  our  little  branches 
while  the  working-people  and  the  clever  politicians 
are  fighting  it  out  between  them."  It  relieved  her 
greatly,  this  forcing  of  herself  from  personal  tur- 
moil to  general  vistas.  "And  all  the  working-people 


280  BRUTE  GODS 

have  got  are  the  better  wage  and  the  higher  standard 
of  comfort  ideals,  all  the  politicians  have  got  is 
adaptability  and  shrewdness  and  their  drab  doctrine 
of  '  Keep  as  much  of  your  skin  as  you  can. '  We  want 
some  aristocrats  to  save  us,  and  there  aren't  any  left. 
Can't  people  see  that  all  the  finer  brain-stuff  is  going 
under,  and  that  we  shall  soon  get  either  a  rule  of 
lobby  and  money  and  journalists  or  a  rule  of  pro- 
letarians turned  middleclass? — And  it's  our  own 
fault!" 

' '  "Well.  In  a  sense.  There  is  a  danger  of  material- 
ism. I've  never  denied  that  some  of  the  signs  of  our 
times  are  disquieting.  Indeed,  I've  pointed  it  out." 

"Oh,  so  does  every  one!"  She  was  suddenly  on 
her  feet.  "It's  late." 

' '  Oh,  hardly.  Why  should  you  ? ' '  He  remembered 
the  letter  to  Miriam  that  he  would  have  to  write  when 
she  had  left.  She  had  made  that  letter  all  the  more 
difficult.  He  shrank  from  the  violent  readjustment 
that  would  be  necessary.  "Well — if  you  must — " 
Carlyon-Williams  took  her  hand.  She  would  come 
back  to  him;  it  was  clear  that  she  was  not  contented, 
she  was  restless,  on  edge,  not  happy.  ' '  I  may  at  least 
wish  you  well?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  She  disappointed  him,  for  she  could 
not  help  laughing.  His  wishes  seemed  to  touch  her 
situation  with  such  bizarre  futility.  "  I  'm  sorry :  but 
in  a  way,  you  see,  you  can't  wish.  You  don't  know. 
I'm  in  it — in  it — that's  all,  and  I  don't  want  to  give 
him  wings  or  set  him  free  or  put  a  polish  on  his  soul, 
I  won't  say  I  do,  I  couldn't  be  so  impertinent,  I 


DISCLOSURES  281 

only  want  to — why  should  I   tell  you,  though?     I 
won't!" 

She  turned,  trembling,  she  went  quickly  for  vexed 
fear  of  his  seeing  that  she  was  nearly  hysterical. 
Carlyon- Williams  stared  after  her,  not  quite  sure 
whether  she  might  not  be  in  love  with  him,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WHY  was  it,  Alec  asked  himself  in  much  per- 
plexity and  some  indignation,  why  was  it 
that  she  had  talked,  that  last  time,  about 
his  leaving  her?  Why  had  she  insisted,  that  day  at 
Richmond,  that  he  had  not  really  burned  his  boats, 
when  he  knew  he  had?  She  was  his:  how  could 
anything  alter  that?  They  could  have  been  married 
by  now;  really  and  truly,  they  were  married  already. 
Then,  why — ?  How  could  she  want  him  to  go,  to  go 
back  to  that  house  where  everything  would  be  as  it 
was  before,  but  blank  and  horrible  as  it  never  had 
been?  If  they  were  married,  it  would  be  a  great 
thing  done,  a  great  confirmation.  It  would  make 
everything  safe;  now  they  weren't  safe.  Gillian, 
during  those  last  two  days,  had  communicated  her 
sense  of  insecurity  to  him,  but,  fearing,  he  tried  to 
feel  it  as  something  entirely  needless,  something  that 
marriage  would  instantly  disperse.  He  saw  marriage 
as  a  fine  stroke,  a  grand  gesture.  Married,  he  could 
return  home ;  married,  he  could  do  anything.  Above 
all,  he  would  be  sure. 

His  was  the  ever-touching,  the  impossible  and  re- 
ligious resolve  to  hold  fast  by  what  Nature,  with  her 
regardless  material  economy,  thrusts  from  Man's 
grasp  so  soon.  He  moved  in  that  blind  drawing  on 
to  get  the  better  of  Nature  by  declaring  a  solemn 
—-"--  p  ..'••"•  282 


DISCLOSURES  283 

perpetuity  of  the  most  instable  and  fleeting,  the  most 
casual  and  undurable  of  all  human  relations. 
Bravely,  viciously,  pathetically,  he  would  have  forced 
Nature,  that  immemorial  violator  of  love's  faith; 
would  have  forced  her  to  his  strong  will  of  the 
moment  by  a  binding  tremendous  confession  of  it  as 
a  will  for  all  his  years,  a  will  that  had  God  for 
sponsor,  God,  Nature's  Overruler.  Held  in  the  pas- 
sionate impulse  to  cry  "Deathless!"  at  the  first  sly 
stench  of  corruption,  hoping  thus  to  outdo  death, 
he  would  win  surer  hope  with  witnesses,  divine  and 
mortal,  to  his  cry. 

They  loved  each  other.  Why,  then!  And  at  first 
she  had  not  rejected  the  idea  of  their  marriage,  she 
had  only  put  off.  "Oh,  don't  let's  spoil  it  by  think- 
ing about  banns  or  Registrars!"  .  .  .  Incidents  of 
their  week's  intimacy  passed  fluttering  and  lively  be- 
fore him.  His  first  sight  of  her  hair  fallen  to  her 
waist — so  fully  a  woman,  that  had  made  her,  so  fully 
his  own.  It  had  revealed  her  as  woman  in  a  way 
so  utterly  strange  and  wonderful;  it  had  made  her 
immemorial  .  .  .  her  warmth  that  hastened  out  to 
him  .  .  .  those  silences  along  which  they  lay,  far  off, 
and  together. 

Why  should  there  have  been  anything  else  to  re- 
member? Why  had  there  been  that  bad  day  at 
Richmond,  the  Sunday?  This  was  the  day  after  he 
had  first  feared,  and  he  had  to  keep  on,  with  his  in- 
experienced tenacity,  arguing  for  marriage,  pleading 
for  it,  insisting.  He  spoilt  the  occasion  wholly. 
Gillian,  with  nerves  sharply  strung  and  fit  for  touches 


284  BRUTE  GODS 

of  discord,  could  not  cope  with  him;  her  normal  self 
failed  her.  She  was  out  of  poise,  and  that  startled 
and  fretted  him.  She  grew  as  insistent  as  he;  they 
almost  wrangled.  She  spoke  against  marriage,  say- 
ing the  kind  of  things  she  had  thought  of  that  day 
in  the  moat,  and  not  said,  every  word  seeming,  to  him, 
exasperatingly  remote  and  irrelevant,  and,  to  her, 
bookish.  Her  words  angered  her  with  herself,  and 
out  of  that  very  vexation  and  annoyance,  she,  in  like 
case  with  him,  had  to  go  on.  She  could  not  come 
too  closely  to  their  own  matter,  to  touch  what  was  the 
real  argument,  their  separating  years.  She  feared 
thus  to  bring  the  whole  near  weight  of  that  cleaving 
stroke  crashing  upon  them,  and  cutting  her  away. 
Meanwhile  he  strove,  perplexed,  not  knowing  that  he 
was  also  striving  with  himself.  Both  of  them  were 
restless,  anxious,  fatigued.  It  was  the  only  com- 
plete day  that  they  had  spent  together.  On  the  week- 
days Gillian  went  to  her  Office  as  usual,  so  Alec  never 
saw  her  before  about  five  o'clock.  .  .  .  He  wouldn't 
think  of  that  day,  it  shouldn't  count.  His  thoughts 
hastened  back,  intercepted  on  their  way,  baulked  for 
awhile,  by  the  consideration  that  she  had  told  him 
to  come  to  her  later  than  usual  that  evening,  and 
had  not  said  why. 

Now  under  the  yoke,  now  under  the  spell  of  his 
reflections,  Alec  sat  in  the  little  bedroom  of  the  shabby 
house  in  Shepherd's  Bush  where  he  had  found  lodg- 
ing. It  was  not  only  a  shabby  house,  it  was  an 
extremely  shady  one;  as  might  have  been  guessed 
from  the  disarmingly  respectable  and  discreet  ap- 


DISCLOSURES  285 

pearance,  the  suspiciously  reassuring  and  benevolent 
demeanour  of  Mrs.  Hannah  Bamfield,  its  tenant. 
Practically  her  entire  income  was,  in  fact,  derived 
from  renting  her  rooms  for  purposes  of  assignation, 
at  five  shillings  and  sixpence  a  visit.  These  five  and 
sixpences  came  in  a  continuous  stream,  both  from 
regular  and  casual  customers,  and  they  enabled  Mrs. 
Barnfield  to  indulge  liberally  in  her  passion  for  the 
collection  of  little  figures  and  little  animals,  mainly  of 
Oriental  fabrication,  in  porcelain  and  ivory  and  silver. 
"So  dainty,"  she  said  of  them,  and  they  were.  Her 
fourteen-year-old  son,  Alfred,  a  sickly  spectacled  boy, 
helped  in  a  bookseller's  shop  in  the  Charing  Cross 
Road,  and  her  daughter  Betty,  a  year  or  so  older 
than  Alfred,  in  no  way  resembling  him,  danced  at 
the  Palace  Theatre  in  Turnham  Green.  But  neither 
of  the  children  brought  much  of  their  small  earnings 
to  the  house.  Their  mother  was  generous  to  them, 
well  satisfied  for  them  to  pay  for  their  own  clothes 
and  amusements,  and  for  herself  to  provide  their 
keep  out  of  the  wages  of  sin. 

Alec  knew  very  little  of  London.  On  his  arrival 
at  Liverpool  Street  he  had  taken  the  Tube  Railway, 
invited  by  its  Entrance  which  was  near  the  platform 
at  which  his  train  drew  up.  He  asked  for  a  ticket 
to  Netting  Hill  Gate — Gillian's  address — but,  in  the 
train,  he  decided  to  go  on  past  that  station  a  little: 
the  neighbourhood  would  be  more  or  less  suburban, 
and  lodgings  would  therefore  be  cheaper.  He  was 
resolved  to  make  Wilfred 's  twenty  pounds  last  as  long 
as  possible :  he  thought  he  could  make  it  last  for  five 


286  BRUTE  GODS 

or  six  weeks.  The  money  had  become  very  real  to 
him  after  the  Station-master  at  Malstowe  had  cashed 
the  cheque.  Arrived  at  Shepherd's  Bush  he  remem- 
bered having  heard  of  that  locality  as  highly  un- 
fashionable. His  father  had  once  contemptuously 
pronounced  its  name.  So  he  got  off,  and,  carrying  his 
valise,  walked  at  haphazard.  Mrs.  Barnfield's  house 
was  the  first  one  he  saw  with  the  placard  "Furnished 
Rooms"  in  the  window. 

The  purpose  of  this  placard  was  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances that  were  at  variance  with  the  reality  of 
Mrs.  Barnfield's  accommodations:  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  losing  money  by  taking  in  respectable  lodgers 
for  a  guinea  or  so  a  week.  Seeing  a  youth  alone, 
a  youth  with  hand-luggage,  which  to  her  mind 
guaranteed  the  propriety  of  his  requirements,  she  told 
him  at  once,  from  force  of  habit,  that  all  her  rooms 
were  let.  She  had  even  begun  to  shut  her  door  against 
the  boy,  when  his  look  of  intense  and  even  suffering 
disappointment  arrested  her.  To  Alec  this  rebuff 
seemed  to  doom  his  whole  enterprise  to  failure. 

"Well,"  she  said.  "There's  lots  o'  nice  plices  a 
little  wye  further  up  the  street.  Stryenger  in  London, 
ain't  yer?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  really  a  stranger. — You've  got 
'Furnished  Rooms'  put  up!" 

"Lodgin's  is  very  dear,  young  man,  after  the  war." 
Mrs.  Barnfield  eyed  him,  and  liked  him. 

"How  much?    What  ought  I  to  pay?" 

"Well.     'Ow  long '11  you  want  to  stye?" 

"Oh,  a  few  weeks,  perhaps.    I  don't  quite  know." 


DISCLOSURES  287 

Mrs.  Barnfield  tickled  her  chin,  and  blinked.  She 
was  taken  by  Alec's  difference  from  the  usual  run  of 
her  customers.  "If  yer  satisfied  with  a  little  room  at 
the  back—" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  don't  mind  at  all." 

"I  might  let  yer  'ave  it  for  a  week.  After  which, 
I  couldn't  sye." 

"Thank  you  very  much." 

He  stepped  eagerly  forward.  Mrs.  Barnfield,  fat, 
neatly  dressed  and  demure,  continued  to  examine  him, 
and  continued  to  find  the  examination  satisfactory. 
She  would  give  him  the  smallest  room,  with  the 
smallest  bed.  After  all,  it  was  a  slack  time  just 
then. 

"And  how  much  will  it  be?"  asked  Alec.  The 
question  of  price  loomed  before  him  with  remarkable 
importance. 

"Oh,  I  won't  be  'ard  on  yer.  Don't  you  worry. 
You  come  with  me,  an'  I'll  show  yer." 

She  led  the  way,  very  slowly,  upstairs.  Outside 
the  door  of  the  room,  she  told  him  to  "jus'  wyte  'arf 
a  minute, ' '  and  went  in  by  herself,  leaving  him  on  the 
landing.  When  she  came  out  she  had  in  her  hands  a 
comb,  a  screwed-up  bit  of  newspaper,  a  hair-net,  a 
half-consumed  cigarette,  an  empty  medicine-bottle, 
five  or  six  hairpins,  and  a  piece  of  broken  looking- 
glass.  ' '  'Bin  tidyin '  up  for  you, ' '  she  said  affably. 

Alec  walked  into  the  room,  not  noticing  anything 
about  it  except  that  it  was  very  small,  and  smelt 
close.  "All  right, ' '  he  said.  ' ' And  how  much  do  you 
want  a  week?" 


288  BRUTE  GODS 

"Five  and  sixpence,"  she  replied,  from  force  of 
habit. 

"All  right,"  he  said  again,  in  pleased  surprise. 
Five  and  sixpence  seemed  so  very  little  out  of  twenty 
pounds. 

"Y'see— "  Mrs.  Barnfield  hesitated.  She  had 
realized  her  slip  at  once,  but  now  that  he  looked  so 
pleased  she  hadn't  the  heart  to  correct  it.  "Well, 
I  wouldn't  do  it  for  every  one,  but  bein'  as  you're 
a  gentleman  an'  it's  a  small  room  an'  I'm  sure  you're 
nice  an'  quiet — "  "Quietness,"  in  Mrs.  Barnfield 's 
eyes,  was  the  most  commendable  of  human  virtues. 

"Oh,  but  of  course  I'd  like  to  give  you  your 
regular  price,"  said  Alec  reluctantly,  little  suspect- 
ing how  "regular"  the  price  was. 

"Ho,  no.  I  said  five  and  six,  and  I  keep  to  what 
I  said.  That's  'ow  I  am."  She  expanded  with  her 
generosity.  "I'll  interdooce  yer  to  me  son  Alfred, 
'case  yer  lonely,  see  what  I  mean?  'E's  at  the 
Pictures  now,  'e  goes  most  every  evenin'.  Me 
daughter,  she's  up  at  the  Palace,  she's  in  the  Profes- 
sion. Smart  kids,  they  are,  my  Alfred,  now,  why 
'e — "  A  ring  at  the  front  door  interrupted  her, 
much  to  the  relief  of  Alec's  growing  impatience. 
"Well,  I  'ope  yez'll  be  comferble."  Excusing  herself 
with  an  air  of  marked  dignity,  even  of  hauteur,  she 
left  him. 

Some  five  minutes  later  he  had  telephoned  to 
Gillian. 

The  last  frailty  in  passion  is,  for  a  woman,  excus- 
able in  tolerant  eyes  by  the  oblivious  sweep  upon  her 


DISCLOSURES  289 

of  an  overwhelming  impromptu  of  romantic  love. 
Before  that  sudden  onslaught  her  defences  may  drop 
and  she  come  under  pity  for  misfortune  rather  than 
censure  for  depravity;  the  charge  being  laid,  with  a 
sigh  and  a  quotation  from  Thomas  Hood  or  Robert 
Burns,  to  Nature's  imperious  urge,  too  strong  for 
human  weakness.  That  familiar  extenuation  cannot 
be  fully  pleaded  for  Gillian.  She  was,  indeed,  drawn 
with  power  to  her  young  lover,  and  drawn  far  more 
romantically  than  sensually :  her  passion  sent  spread- 
ing circles  far  out  from  the  fleshly  desire  which  it 
compassed.  The  desire  and  its  expression  were  in- 
cidents in  the  larger  emotional  outflow,  incidents  that 
played  their  due  part,  their  inevitable  part,  in  rela- 
tion, for  release  and  change;  but,  as  things  in  them- 
selves, they  were  reduced  to  an  unimportance  that 
can  never  be  understood  by  sensualists  or  Puritans. 
Men  and  women  of  these  two  kindred  classes  heighten 
the  import  of  mere  sex-action  because  it  is  the  only 
expression  of  passion  that  they  can  understand  or 
admit.  Indulgence  and  suppression,  the  one  constant 
and  undiscriminating  as  the  other,  involve  the  same 
curtailments,  the  same  impoverishments  of  view. 
They  involve  the  same  obscene  decencies  and  disgusts : 
Mr.  Carlyon-Williams  and  Mr.  McGill,  the  lay-reader, 
the  "Purity  Ghoul,"  knew  these  alike. 

If  Gillian  had  loved  Alec  more  sensually,  she  would 
have  drawn  back:  that  lesser  gain  would  not  have 
been  worth  her  surrender.  Out  of  sensualism  she  will 
be  condemned.  If  her  nature  had  been  more  grossly 
amorous,  and  therein  colder  and  narrower;  if  sex- 


290  BRUTE  GODS 

consciousness  had  played  as  much  a  part  in  her  life 
as  in  the  life  of  the  average  girl ;  even,  it  may  be  said, 
if  she  had  not  been,  as  she  was,  virgin — she  would 
not  have  given  so  unreservingly,  she  would  not  have 
rejected  the  interval,  the  gradual  approach. 

But  she  knew  what  she  was  doing.  Her  brain  held 
clear.  She  provoked  the  event,  not  he.  To  her  deeper 
impulses  there  was  added  a  fevered  determination  to 
snatch  at  the  joy  and  delight  that  were  there  now  for 
her  as  never,  not  even  in  blurred  likeness,  they  had 
been ;  and  as  they  never  would  be  again,  she  was  sure 
of  that.  She  remembered  how  Carlyon- Williams  had 
failed  her ;  she  saw  herself  in  a  destined  succession  of 
such  failures,  unshriven  by  the  one  full  confession 
of  herself  offered  by  that  hour.  She  knew,  even  from 
the  beginning,  how  short  that  hour  must  be.  If  she 
refused  it,  the  loss  would  stand  firm,  and  all  her 
theories,  her  professions  of  free  faith,  how  bitterly 
they  would  mock  her! — Now,  when  he  had  come  to 
her — Alec — come  driving  his  way,  inevitably  and  at 
once,  breaking  down  his  father's  will,  finding 
money  .  .  .  He  had  come  before  she  had  said  he 
might.  She  was  touched  and  moved  by  that  strongly : 
and  while  it  might  have  delayed  another  woman,  it 
hastened  her. 

Yet  for  all  this  she  might  not  have  so  consciously 
formed  her  decision  and  struck  so  directly  with  it — 
so  shamelessly  soon,  even  by  the  standards  of  Mrs. 
Barnfield's  amorists — had  it  not  been  for  that  in- 
tellectual sophistication  which  often  does  so  much 
worse  or  so  much  better  than  blind  feeling.  She  did, 


DISCLOSURES  291 

at  one  determining  moment,  allow  reason  to  challenge 
and  to  worst  sex-instinct  for  the  later  as  against  the 
present  time.  Instinct  was  for  hope  of  the  impos- 
sible, for  the  trying  of  all  ways  to  hold  him  for  a 
longer  hour:  reason  fronted  the  facts. 

Alec  had  no  sense  of  sin.  His  recent  reaction 
against  conventional  moral  values  had  little  to  do 
with  this.  He  felt,  very  simply,  that  now  he  could 
look  the  whole  world  in  the  face,  that  the  world  must 
open  its  arms  to  him.  He  felt  that  he  could  never 
be  ashamed  of  anything  any  more.  This  exultation 
held  for  five  days:  for  five  days  he  was  as  a  god, 
knowing  good  and  not  evil.  Then  suddenly  in  one 
of  their  embraces,  the  thought  came:  It  had  never 
been  quite  the  same  as  it  was  in  the  Tower  moat. 
From  then  on,  being  no  longer  sure  and  satisfied,  he 
talked  of  marriage,  and  their  wills  began  to  pull, 
straining.  He  was  reaching,  as  best  he  could,  for  re- 
capture of  what  she  knew  he  could  not  have  again, 
from  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AS  Gillian  went  from  "Williams  back  to  her  flat 
a  harsh  intolerable  hatred  of  herself  drove 
over  her,  followed  by  a  racking  fear  of  what 
that  self -hatred  might  do  to  Alec.     It  would  turn  him 
terribly     against     her,     it     must.  .  .  .  Her     nerves 
wavered  cruelly,  they  would  break,  she  couldn't  see 
him.     She  could  not  go  to  Alec  from  Carlyon- Wil- 
liams.    Some    hotel,    the    nearest   hotel.  ...  If    she 
could  get  a  room,  if  she  could  be  there  alone,  safe, 
in  five  minutes.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  she  was  in  the  cab,  she  was  attacked 
by  a  bitter  indignation  against  Williams.  Why,  when 
she  didn't  love  that  man,  when  she  never  had  loved 
him,  never  could  have  loved  him —  Was  that  true, 
was  that  honestly  true,  that  she  never  could  have 
cared  ?  Of  course  it  was !  Why,  then,  had  this  meet- 
ing with  him  now  been  so  important?  Why  had 
he  this  power,  to  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  see 
Alec?  He  shouldn't  have,  she  wouldn't  allow  it! 
She  wouldn't  run  away,  she  wouldn't  go  to  any  hotel, 
it  was  ridiculous.  She  resolved  to  intercept  her  own 
flight  at  once,  she  told  the  driver  to  go  to  Netting 
Hill  Gate  Station.  She  was  in  panic  as  her  sudden 
forced  courage,  her  defiance  of  her  instinct  for  safety, 
came  up,  battling  against  the  leap  of  her  apprehension. 
She  wouldn't,  at  least,  give  any  other  order  to  the 

292 


DISCLOSURES  293 

driver,  she  couldn't  have  stood  doing  that.  Why  not 
tell  Alec  she  was  ill,  when  he  came?  She  need  only 
see  him  for  a  moment.  She  would  do  that:  that 
wouldn't  be  running  away,  would  it?  She  wouldn't 
let  him  see  her  strained  face,  he  wouldn't  know  that 
she  was  harsh  and  nervous  and  frightened.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair,  seeing  him,  not  when  she  was  like 
this.  She  must  walk  quickly  from  the  Station  or  he 
might  be  there  first,  waiting  .  .  .  walking  up  and 
down  the  street,  as  he  had  had  to  once  before.  He 
had  no  key,  he  hadn't  asked;  of  course,  he  wouldn't 
have  thought.  He  hadn't  thought  of  anything  like 
that,  hadn  't  thought  of  passing  as  her  brother  ...  no 
intrigue.  How  untouched  he  was.  .  .  . 

She  was  breathless  from  her  haste  as  she  stooped 
to  open  the  door:  at  once  she  went  to  her  bedroom, 
to  the  mirror.  ' '  How  dreadful  I  look !  I  look  dread- 
ful, he  mustn't  see  me."  Damp  ends  of  hair  clung  to 
her  cheeks  and  to  her  forehead,  her  face  was  pallid 
and  moist,  lines  showed  in  it.  How  could  she  have 
failed  so  in  control?  It  was  shameful  of  her.  She 
tugged  at  her  hair,  loosened  it  out  through  her  fingers, 
let  it  fall,  hid  her  face  in  it.  She  flung  her  hair  back, 
drew  it  tightly  back  from  ears  and  forehead,  laid 
her  face  bare,  scrutinized  herself.  ...  It  was  a  di- 
rect stroke,  a  clear  disclosure,  that  she  needed  with 
Alec.  But  she  couldn't  look  like  that.  He  might 
he  there  at  once.  She  went  to  the  bathroom,  sponged 
her  face  in  cold  water,  rubbed  it  with  a  rough  towel 
If  she  could  somehow  disguise  herself!  The  bell 
rang.  Her  hair  down  .  .  .  she  would  leave  it,  he 


294  BRUTE  GODS 

liked  it.  ...  She  remembered  what  he  had  said  that 
first  day  they  met :  "I  shouldn 't  mind  if  it  did  come 
down."  She  went  to  the  door,  called  his  name,  and 
he  answered.  "Wait  a  minute!"  she  said  sharply. 
She  went  back  to  her  bedroom,  drew  her  hair  tightly 
back  from  her  ears  and  forehead,  fastened  it,  fastened 
it  close  with  hairpins,  rolled  it  behind  high  on  her 
neck,  and  so  went  out  to  meet  him. 

"Why  did  you  make  me  come  so  late?  Why, 
Gillian,  Gillian  dear,  what's  the  matter?" 

" Oh,  I  just  came  back.  I've  been — "  She  turned 
on  the  light. 

"What's  happened?" 

"Look  at  me,  you're  not  looking." 

"Why  have  you — ?  What  have  you  been  doing  to 
your  hair  ?  Do  let  me — " 

"Don't  touch  it!  I  don't  want  you  to  touch  it! 
Sit  there,  Alec." 

' '  Something 's  happened,  what  is  it  ?     Do  tell  me — ' ' 

"You  must  go  back,  you  must  go  home.  I  want  you 
to." 

"Oh,  Gillian,  again!  You  promised  you  wouldn't. 
You  don't  want  me  any  more?" 

"I  do!  I  want  you  to  go  away  before  you've 
stopped  wanting  me." 

"Do  put  your  hair  right,  please  do." 

"No.     I  want  you  to  see,  I  want  you  to  know — " 

"But  I  know  I  love  you.  Just  because  you  put 
your  hair  like  that,  do  you  think  that — ?  But  you 
must  change  it,  you  must,  and  be  like  you  were  be- 
fore." 


DISCLOSURES  295 

"You  don't  know  what  I  was  before,  you  don't 
know  what  I  am,  Alec." 

"Yes,  I  do,  you're  Gillian.  I  don't  care  about  any- 
thing else." 

"You  do  really.  You  must,  even  if  you  don't  think 
so.  Oh,  I  can't  give  you  what  you  really  want,  what 
you  ought  to  have!" 

"But  why — ?"  He  sat  looking  at  her  face  that 
was  drawn  and  driven  with  its  pain,  exposed,  solitary, 
braving  him.  He  felt  again  that  it  had  never  been 
quite  as  it  was  in  the  Tower  moat,  refusing  now,  in 
sharpened  loyalty,  that  feeling.  "I  couldn't  want 
anything  more ! ' ' 

"I  don't  mean  for  now,  I  mean  later.  No,  Alec, 
you  must  go.  I  want  to  make  it  easier  for  you,  I've 
tried  to.  So  long  as  you  do  mind  going,  a  little, 
still.  I'd  like  you  to  mind  a  little." 

"I  do,  most  awfully!  Do  change  your  hair  back, 
do  let  me — just — " 

"No,  I  can't.  We  must  leave  off,  don't  you  see 
we  must?" 

"We  can  marry.  Do  let  us  marry.  Let's  make  it 
certain.  You  know  what  I  said  before,  I  feel  just 
the  same." 

"Ah,  that's  it!"  She  looked  up.  He  was  beauti- 
ful to  her,  his  eagerness  was  very  beautiful.  She 
turned  from  him.  "You're  so  awfully  young!" 

"You  mean  you're  tired  of  me?" 

"Oh!"  She  was  seized  terribly  by  a  longing  for 
him  to  come  clinging  to  her,  she  was  in  misery  and 
fear  for  her  want  of  him.  He  mustn't  know  .  .  .  but 


296  BRUTE  GODS 

why  not,  why  shouldn't  he?  "If  we  keep  on  any 
longer,"  she  said,  "I  shall  have  to  marry  you,  I  can't 
hold  out,  and  that's  why  it  must  stop.  Haven't  I 
done  everything?  I've  spoilt  it  for  you  already,  I 
know  I  have,  I  couldn't  help — "  She  still  looked 
down,  away  from  him.  "Alec,  I  know  that  man 
very  well,  did  they  tell  you?  Carlyon-Williams. " 

"Oh,  they  said  something  about  your  being 
friends." 

"I've  seen  him  today,  been  with  him.  He  used 
to  be  fond  of  me  in  a  way,  I  ought  to  have  told  you. ' ' 

""What,  that  chap!"  Alec  was  shocked.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say —  But  you  didn't  like  him,  you 
couldn't  have,  did  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!" 

"But  he  didn't — he  didn't  ever  kiss  you?" 

"Once  he  did.  Oh,  it  may  have  been  two  or  three 
times." 

"They  said  you  were  friends.  I  didn't  think — " 
Alec  frowned.  "But  you  didn't  like  him!" 

"Alec.  You'll  find  some  girl  who'll  come  to  you 
utterly  fresh — utterly  clear — you  deserve  it.  I've 
robbed  her,  I  know  I  have,  but  I've  left  her  a  great 
deal.  I  won't  leave  any  less."  She  wanted  to  add 
"I  love  you  too  much,"  but  she  was  strong  enough 
not  to  say  that.  ' '  Oh,  Alec,  you  don 't  know  now,  but 
it  makes  all  the  difference — all  the  difference.  The 
kind  of  love  I  want  for  you  is  the  only  kind  that 
any  mother  ever  wants  her  boy  to  have,  it's  the  love 
you've  a  right  to,  and  I  can't  give  it  you.  First  love, 
young  love.  I  know  what  it  ought  to  be,  because 


DISCLOSURES  297 

I've  been  really  young  too.  But  I  never  found  any 
one,  not  then.  It  was  rather  a  pity,  I  suppose — " 

"But  you've  found  me."  Alec  tried  to  under- 
stand, he  couldn't,  his  head  was  throbbing.  "And  I 
am  your  first,  you  told  me  I  was."  He  thought  of 
Williams. 

' '  Oh,  in  that  way,  yes !  But  I  've  thought  too  much, 
I've  known  too  much.  It's  not  the  same.  You'd  find 
out  later  on.  Nothing  is  surer  than  that ;  if  it  weren't 
so  sure,  I'd  stay  with  you,  I'd  risk  a  chance,  of  course 
I  would!  But  you'd  find  out,  and  it  would  be  ter- 
rible. I  can  feel  it,  and  I  can't  face  it.  I'd  no  right 
to  be  your  first!" 

"What!  You  don't  think  it  was  wicked,  you 
couldn't.  ..." 

"If  it  had  been  only  what  people  call  wicked — 
only  sensual —  It's  just  because  it  was  more,  it's  be- 
cause it  was  too  much  and  too  little ! ' ' 

"Gillian,  dear.  I  don't.  .  .  .  Oh,  do  please  put 
your  hair  down,  don't — don't  cheat  me  like  that,  be 
like  you  were,  do ! " 

"I  couldn't,  not  now.  It  would  make  it  harder, 
saying  good-bye." 

"I  won't  say  good-bye!"  Alec  got  up  and  took 
her  hands.  "This  isn't  the  last  time,"  he  cried  in 
acute  alarm,  "it  can't  be!" 

"It  won't  be  any  use,  what  use  could  it  be  after 
what  I've  said?  You  know  now — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  about  what  you  said!  I  didn't 
even  understand  it. ' ' 

"But  you  will.    Alec,  I'm  horribly  tired."    She 


298  BRUTE  GODS 

put  his  hands  from  her.  "You  will  go,  won't  you? 
You  wouldn't  stay  if  you  knew,  you  couldn't — " 

' '  But  I  can  come  again  tomorrow  ? ' ' 

"No,  no,  don't,  please  don't.  Not  tomorrow  or  the 
next  day,  at  least." 

"The  day  after?    But  it's  awfully  long." 

"I'll  write,  I'll  tell  you.  I  must  be  alone,  I  must 
think,  I  must  get  free." 

"You  could  write  and  make  it  sooner."  He  leaned 
to  kiss  her;  she  put  up  her  hand  against  him. 
"Gillian!  You're  tired  of  me,  that's  what  it  is,  I 
knew  it  must  be  you  didn't  care  any  more,  not  so 
much — " 

"Do  you?  Really,  do  you?  Is  it  just  the  same 
for  you?  You  know  it  isn't,  Alec,  not  even  after  a 
week. ' ' 

"You  shouldn't  say  that!"  he  declared  violently. 
"It  is  the  same.  Why  do  you  talk  like  this,  why  do 
you  keep  on?  We  could  have  been  so  happy  all  this 
time !  And  now  I  'm  not  to  see  you  for  three  days ! ' ' 
He  spoke  fretfully. 

"Perhaps  in  three  days.  I'm  not  sure.  I  oughtn't 
to  see  you  again,  I  don't  know  if  I'll  let  myself  be 
weak." 

"Oh,  Gillian,  you  must!" 

"I  won't  say  now.  It's  not  fair.  Don't  say  any- 
thing more,  Alec,  just  go,  I  do  beg  you." 

"All  right,  then." 

He  turned  to  go,  in  pique  and  disappointment  and 
perplexity.  His  head  ached:  she  had  given  him  a 


DISCLOSURES  299 

headache  with  the  words  that  came  from  her  aching 
heart.  As  he  left  her,  he  heard  her  sob,  and  he  turned 
back  for  a  moment.  ' '  But  I  want  to  marry  you, ' '  he 
said,  ' '  I  do  want  to,  I  want  it  so  much ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  mornings  and  afternoons  of  that  past 
week  had  exposed  Alec  to  the  friendliness 
of  Mrs.  Barnfield.  Also  to  her  curiosi- 
ties, for  she  very  soon  began  to  wonder,  agreeably, 
what  he  did  with  his  evenings,  for  which  he  always 
declined  her  Alfred's  invitations  on  the  ground  that 
he  had  to  "see  friends."  Betty,  the  dancer,  never 
got  up  till  nearly  noon.  Two  or  three  mornings  after 
his  arrival,  she  had  run  into  him  on  the  landing  round 
a  corner ;  she  was  in  her  dressing-gown.  ' '  Oh,  Billie ! 
and  who'd  have  thought  it  was.  you?"  She  darted 
away,  laughing,  turning  flying  curls  to  him.  Before 
that  he  had  hardly  noticed  her.  A  few  minutes  later, 
going  out,  he  heard  Mrs.  Barnfield  reproving  her 
daughter  for  being  "free" — "runnin'  round  the 
'ouse  not  properly  dressed  at  this  time  of  dye,  I'm 
ashimed  of  yer!" 

On  his  condemnation  to  the  three  days'  absence 
from  Gillian,  Alec  realized  the  need  of  defence  against 
his  landlady.  She  had  opened  the  door  for  him,  had 
commented  on  his  being  back  so  early,  and  held  him 
with  her  talk  till  his  head  ached  worse  than  ever. 
"When  he  told  her  that  his  head  ached  and  that  he 
must  go  to  bed,  she  made  protracted  suggestions  of 
remedies.  At  last  he  escaped.  He  slept  heavily  and 
dreamlessly. 

300 


DISCLOSURES  301 

When  lie  woke,  it  was  late.  His  headache  was 
gone.  He  dressed  quickly,  slipped  out  of  the  house, 
walked  at  a  great  pace  to  the  little  tea-shop  where 
he  had  his  breakfasts.  Breakfasting  was  at  any  rate 
something  to  do,  something  to  think  of.  What  he 
would  like  would  be  to  move  about  very  rapidly. 
He  wanted  a  fast  motor,  an  open  motor.  Well,  riding 
on  the  top  of  a  motorbus,  that  would  do.  After  break- 
fast he  took  the  first  'bus  that  passed,  a  'bus  that  went 
westward  along  streets  and  roads  where  traffic  was 
light.  Alec  -let  himself  swing  in  the  mere  motion, 
absorbed  in  the  motion,  thinking  of  nothing  else.  He 
went  to  the  end  of  the  journey,  then  he  stayed  on  for 
the  return. 

When  the  'bus  had  almost  got  back  to  Shepherd's 
Bush,  it  began  to  rain.  The  woman  sitting  next  to 
Alec  put  up  her  umbrella.  He  noticed  that  she 
seemed  conscious  of  protecting  him  with  it.  He  didn  't 
like  that,  it  embarrassed  him  and  made  him  nervous; 
he  edged  away.  "You'll  get  wet,  won't  you?"  she 
said. — "Oh,  I  get  out  here,  I  live  here!" — He 
clambered  down  hastily  and  went  to  his  tea-shop. 
It  was  time  for  lunch  now.  The  time  had  gone,  after 
all. 

He  ate  lunch  as  slowly  as  he  could.  The  rain  went 
on.  Perhaps  he  had  better  go  back  to  the  house  for 
his  coat.  He  might  be  able  to  avoid  Mrs.  Barnfield. 
He  could  say  he  was  in  a  hurry. 

But  Mrs.  Barnfield  was  not  avoidable.  She  ap- 
peared at  once,  impressively  solicitous  about  his  being 
wet.  Yesterday,  she  told  him,  he'd  had  a  headache; 


302  BRUTE  GODS 

now,  he'd  have  a  cold.  She'd  make  him  some  good 
strong  tea,  hot.  He  thanked  her,  he  agreed :  it  would 
pass  the  time.  "You  ain't  doin'  anything  par- 
tic  ler  ? ' '  she  queried  curiously. — ' '  Oh,  not  now.  But 
I  must  go  out  soon  again,  you  know." — He  wouldn't 
for  anything  have  admitted  that  those  two  evenings 
were  empty. 

When  he  had  drunk  his  tea,  Mrs.  Barnfield  invited 
Alec  to  view  her  collection  of  little  figures — "my 
ornaments,"  she  called  them.  She  opened  the  glass 
front  of  the  bookshelf  in  which  they  were  locked. 
Alec  examined  and  admired,  Mrs.  Barnfield  lengthen- 
ing the  period  of  his  admiration  by  informing  him 
in  careful  detail  about  the  places  and  the  dates  of 
her  purchases.  She  fingered  the  tiny  objects,  one  by 
one,  her  eyes  glazed  and  excited.  Transported  by  the 
delicacies  of  an  ivory  elephant,  she  once  called  Alec 
"dearie" — a  term  which,  from  her  to  him,  struck  the 
boy  as  unprecedentedly  odd.  Suddenly  Betty  ap- 
peared— an  appearance  flung  at  full  pitch ;  completely 
caught  by  him  for  its  unexpectedness,  firmly  held. 
He  was  startled  by.  her  noticeableness,  he  found  he 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  her  long  black  curls,  those 
dead-black,  so  separate  curls.  The  reflection  that  she 
was  "an  actress"  gratified  him:  he  had  never  seen  an 
actress  in  private  life  before.  "But  then,"  he 
thought,  "she's  only  a  kid,  she'd  hardly  count." 

"Hello,  Billie!"  she  said.  "Having  a  squint 
round  the  Zoo?"  She  had  none  of  her  mother's 
Cockney  accent;  her  pronunciation  was  sometimes  too 
careful. 


DISCLOSURES  303 

1 '  '  Billie ' ! ' '    Mrs.  Barnfield  pouted.    i '  The  idea ! ' ' 

''How  should  I  know  what  his  old  name  is?" 
The  girl  started  whistling  a  tune,  and  went  over  to  the 
window.  " Earning,"  she  observed,  with  complete  in- 
difference. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  The  mother  was  watching 
Alec.  "Just  you  tike  a  taxi  up,  dearie,  I  won't 
grudge  the  'arf-a-crown.  Penny  wise  an'  poun' 
foolish  never  done  no  good,  I  say."  She  invited 
Alec's  wandering  attention  to  a  porcelain  alligator. 

"Don't  you  go  showing  those  books  round,  now!" 
Betty  turned  sharply.  Alec  had  stopped  thinking 
what  time  it  was.  He  took  in  the  unusualness  of  the 
colour  of  her  cheeks  and  her  wide  mouth.  He  did  not 
know  that  she  used  rouge:  she  used  it  skilfully,  and 
might  have  deceived  an  observer  more  expert  than  he. 
"See?"  she  went  on,  as  her  mother  did  not  answer. 
"Because  I  don't  want." 

Mrs.  Barnfield  gave  her  a  look  in  which  maternal 
suspicion  and  maternal  understanding  were  blended. 
"That'll  be  all  right,"  she  said. 

"Because  they're  mine.     They're  private.     See?" 

In  a  few  minutes  the  three  of  them  were  looking 
through  the  books  together.  One  contained  photo- 
graphs of  Betty  at  various  ages  and  in  various  cos- 
tumes, the  other  was  a  scrap-book  full  of  press-notices, 
provincial  and  suburban,  of  the  various  shows  in  which 
she  had  played.  She  had  been  on  the  stage  since  she 
was  twelve. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  out.  "You  mustn't  see  that  one. 
— Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  I  was  only  a  kid  then!" 


304  BRUTE  GODS 

' '  She  always  did  have  beautiful  limbs,  from  a  baby, ' ' 
Mrs.  Barnfield  observed  with  decorous  satisfaction. 

Alec  bent  his  head  over  the  photograph.  It  was  of 
Betty  at  thirteen,  plump  and  lithe,  a  too  female  Cupid. 
The  boy's  face  was  serious,  he  looked  as  though  he 
were  learning  a  lesson.  "That's  a  silly  one!" 
Betty  gave  him  an  inquisitive  glance,  and  turned  the 
pages. 

There  was  coquetry  in  everything  she  did:  in  the 
way  she  turned  those  pages,  the  way  she  shook  back 
those  dead-black  curls,  the  way  she  drummed  on  the 
table  with  her  broad  little  fingers.  In  every  possible 
way  she  threw  out  her  propinquity  as  a  challenge  to 
the  boy. 

Mrs.  Barnfield  was  talking  feelingly  of  the  tempta- 
tions of  a  young  girl  in  London.  "Specially  when 
she's  in  the  Profession.  They're  something  terrible, 
the  men  are.  If  you  knew,  just. ' ' 

"Oh,  shut  it,  Mother!" 

"You  may  laugh,  dearie,  but  once  you  give  'em 
'arf  a  chanct  or  nod  yer  'ead  for  'arf  a  minute —  It's 
watchful  as  a  cat  as  does  it." 

Betty  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking  at  Alec, 
and  looking  at  him  freely,  because  his  eyes  remained 
fixed  on  the  book  of  photographs.  She  liked  him,  be- 
cause he  had  taken  no  notice  of  her  at  any  time,  be- 
cause he  had  been  so  preoccupied.  From  the  first 
she  had  suspected  him  of  being  "in  love,"  and  she 
knew,  not  consciously,  that  he  was  loved.  Her  un- 
read conviction  of  this  influenced  her  enormously,  the 
conviction  was  as  profound  as  it  was  remote.  It  was 


DISCLOSURES  305 

the  undeciphered  signs  in  him  of  Gillian's  love  that 
drew  this  girl,  and  challenged  her  in  her  turn.  Alec 
kept  thinking  that  she  was  not  so  pretty  as  her  photo- 
graphs, and  he  wondered  why  the  photographs  would 
be  dull  if  she  were  not  there. 

"My  little  girl  will  wait  till  the  right  one  comes 
along,  I  know  my  Betty!  One  feller's  enough  for 
any  girl,  and  one  girl's  enough  for  a  feller."  ("More 
than  enough,"  Alec  thought,  in  trouble.)  "An' 
that's  what  I've  always  said!  A  nice  girl  knows  a 
reel  man,  one  what  11  love  an  pertect  her."  Mrs. 
Barnfield  brightened  under  the  propriety  of  her 
sentiments.  "Why  are  you  so  mum,  Betts?  It  ain't 
like  yer — "  She  wanted  her  child  to  show  off. 

"Oh,  tired,  that's  it.  Here,  do  you  want  to  see  this 
one?  Don't  go  on  looking  at  those  stupid  old  photo- 
graphs, I'm  sick  of  them!"  She  pushed  the  book 
away,  brushing  his  hand  with  her  hair. 

Alec  glanced  hurriedly  up.  "She  is  pretty,"  he 
thought,  "at  least  she's — "  He  looked  down,  still 
grave. 

Betty  Barnfield  did  give  a  first  impression  of  pretti- 
ness,  but  that  came  entirely  from  her  eyes  and  hair 
and  manner,  her  gaiety  and  youth.  Certainly  she 
had  no  beauty.  Her  nose  was  blunt,  her  large  mouth 
lacked  grace  of  curve,  there  was  a  certain  shapeless- 
ness  about  the  whole  face.  And  even  though  she  was 
so  young,  she  had  to  take  warning  from  her  mother's 
figure  and  thought  for  her  own.  She  was  already 
anxiously  afraid  of  growing  up  to  be  "one  of  those 
awful  great  big  fat  girls."  But  her  child's  slender- 


306  BRUTE  GODS 

ness  was  enticingly  tempered,  now,  by  the  hints  of  her 
physical  future,  the  beginnings  that  tinged  her  child's 
looks  with  sex.  She  violently  attracted  middle-aged 
men,  for  whom,  unlike  many  girls  of  her  age,  she  had 
a  great  distaste.  She  could  afford  to  repulse  them 
unequivocally,  thanks  to  her  mother 's  equivocal  gains. 
Boys  took  little  heed  of  her,  and,  absorbed  in  her  pro- 
fession, she  had  been  much  less  occupied  with 
amorous  thoughts  than  are  most  well  brought  up 
young  boarding-school  girls,  nourishing  their  curiosi- 
ties and  ignorances  and  dreams  that  spring  in  such 
sensuous  plenty  from  the  soil  of  their  guardians'  care. 
Lovemaking,  to  Betty,  was  a  humorous  matter,  as- 
sociated with  the  repartee  of  stage-comedians. 

"Who  wrote  this?"  Alec  asked.  "It's  a  sonnet, 
isn't  it?" 

"What's  that  mean?"  The  child  leaned,  and  tak- 
ing the  book,  sharing  it  with  him,  she  stayed  close. 
"Oh,  good-night!  The  chap  that  wrote  that  was 
dotty!" 

"I  like  it.     I  think  it's  very  good." 

"That  pome  what  that  Mr.  Merridew  wrote  about 
you,  dearie?" 

".The  first  letters  of  the  lines  make  my  name,  do 
you  see?" 

"You  read  'em  down.  Clever,  ain't  it?  'E  was 
an  artist,  so  'e  said,  useter  sketch.  Betty  wouldn' 
take  no  notice  of  'im,  an'  serve  'im  right.  'E  wasn' 
up  to  no  good,  a  man  don't  go  writin'  pomes  an' 
spendin'  'is  money  on  bouquets  an'  big  boxes  of 
chocerlits  fer  nothin'.  Says  'e  met  'er  by  chanct,  we 


DISCLOSURES  307 

know  all  about  that!  'Ad  'is  wicked  old  eye  on  'er 
fer  a  week  an'  more!" 

By  chance  we  met,  n  chance  indeed 
As  kind  and  bright  as  hours  of  May, 
Releasing  song  and  holiday — 

Alec  read.  "Can  I  copy  this?"  he  asked.  "I'd  like 
to." 

"Can  if  you  like.  It  won't  hurt  me!"  Betty 
blushed,  and  her  mother  sat  looking  at  them,  absorb- 
ing the  intimations  of  the  boy 's  request  and  her  ' '  little 
girl's"  mounting  colour. 

"A  tall  feller,  'e  was,  Mr.  Merridew  was,  with 
lightish  'air  an'  wore  it  long — " 

"Oh,  he  was  soft!" 

"0'  course  I  know  you  never  give  'im  a  moment's 
thought,  'course  not."  Mrs.  Barnfield  spoke  with 
quaint  dignity.  She  slowly  rose.  "I  'ave  some 
dooties  to  attend  to,"  she  announced.  "If  you  'ave 
no  objection  to  excusin'  me?" 

With  fluttering  heart  she  left  them,  every  fibre  of 
her  sprouting  thickly  in  the  warmth  of  her  romantic 
idea  of  the  two  of  them  there  together,  the  "two 
young  people."  Mrs.  Barnfield  was  indeed  starving 
for  erotic  idealizations.  If  only  she  had  known  of 
the  works  of  Mr.  Carlyon- Williams,  they  would  have 
gone  far  to  satisfy  her  cravings.  Her  continual  con- 
tact with  the  material  final  certainties  of  sex-desire, 
with  the  last  demonstrations,  all  too  practically  ar- 
ranged for,  all  too  sordidly,  and  all  too  baldly  linked 
with  five  and  sixpences,  had  given  her  the  sentimental 


308  BRUTE  GODS 

aspirations  of  a  schoolgirl.  Confronted  perpetually 
by  desire's  later  issue,  in  a  presentment  of  unnatural 
severance,  Mrs.  Barnfield  much  required  a  relieving 
and  adjusting  complicity  with  first  stirrings,  shy 
beginnings,  hopes  just  born  and  frail,  longings  frail 
and  insecure,  delicate  delays  and  doubtful  tremors, 
all  the  early  apparatus  of  blossoming  hearts.  In 
these  now  she  dwelt:  match-making  thoughts  lay 
stilled  under  the  generous  flow  of  her  romantic  emo- 
tion. 

"Where's  that  old  pen  and  ink?"  cried  Betty. 

"Oh,  don't  get  it.     Don't  get  up." 

"Well,  you  wanted  it,  didn't  you?" 

Already,  before  he  could  struggle  with  the  fact, 
she  was  away  from  him,  on  tiptoe,  reaching  up  to  the 
top  of  a  shelf.  She  placed  before  him  an  egregiously 
large,  heavy  inkstand,  with  a  very  small  quantity  of 
thickened  ink  in  the  well.  He  watched  her  with  what 
seemed  like  stupid  attention — stupidly  close. 

"There's  some  paper  in  the  drawer,  or  there  ought 
to  be,  anyhow!" 

She  lifted  the  table  cloth  and  pulled  the  drawer 
open,  with  a  pull  so  sharp  and  ungauged  that  it  fell 
out  on  the  floor,  and  paper,  old  letters,  penholders 
and  nibs,  string  and  ribbons  and  pins  were  scattered. 
Alec  jumped  up :  they  both  stooped  and  gathered  the 
things  from  the  floor. 

"You  shouldn't  have  pulled  so  hard." 

"What  I  should  do  and  what  I  do  do  are  two  differ- 
ent things." 

' '  Yes,  I  know.     They  always  are. ' ' 


DISCLOSURES  309 

"Why  don't  you  come  and  see  me  at  the  show? 
You  might  as  well." 

He  did  not  answer.  Their  sudden  intimacy  be- 
wildered him,  he  was  bewildered  by  his  sense  of  the 
natural  odour  of  her  hair,  by  the  way  it  involved  him. 
Alarmed,  he  protested  against  his  exultation. 

"I  suppose  you're  always  busy  in  the  evenings. 
Mother  says  you're  never  in." 

"Oh,  I — I  could  be."  Mrs.  Barnfield  was  her 
mother:  a  remarkable  fact. 

"You're  lucky.  You  can  do  what  you  like.  I 
wish  I  was  rich ! ' ' 

"I'm  not  rich." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  was  a  man  then.  I  wish  I  was 
older  and  could  do  what  I  liked.  I  wish  I  was  as 
old  as  you.  Anyhow,  it's  not  as  though  I  was  a  kid 
any  more,  that's  something."  She  shot  the  filled 
drawer  back  into  its  place. 

"You're  pretty  young,  though." 

"When  I'm  sixteen — that'll  be  next  December — 
I'm  going  to  put  my  hair  up,  off  the  stage,  I  mean  I 
am.  I'm  just  sick  to  death  of  being  a  flapper! 
There's  the  paper;  I  wouldn't  copy  that  old  stuff 
if  I  were  you.  Too  much  like  work!"  She  leaned 
over  his  shoulder,  letting  her  glance  rest  for  a 
moment  on  the  page  where  his  eyes  were  fixed. 
"Cheer  up,  Billie!  You're  not  dead  yet!"  She 
pinched  his  coatsleeve. 

Alec  stood  up  abruptly  and  faced  the  girl. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said.  "I  must.  You  see — I  have 
to  go  away,  you  see — "  He  put  out  both  hands  to 


310  BRUTE  GODS 

her,  with  no  will  for  the  act  he  took  her  young  arms. 
"I  can't  stay  any  more — " 

"I  say,  you're  hurting.  That's  my  arm,  you  know, 
thanks  awfully.  What's  up,  Billie?  What's  it  all 
about?" 

"I  didn't  mean — "  He  relaxed  his  grasp.  "I 
didn't  know — I'm  sorry." 

''You're  a  rum  sort  of  fellow,  not  knowing  what 
you're  doing."  Betty  rubbed  her  arm. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you — I  oughtn't  to — I'd 
no  idea — I'd  better  go,  really  I  had." 

' '  Who 's  stopping  you,  then  ? ' '  She  drew  back,  her 
eyes  shining  at  him  with  the  mischief  and  the  pleasure 
of  her  satisfaction.  "Good-bye,  Billie,  I  must  le-eave 
you ! ' '  She  put  one  foot  forward  and  struck  a  stage 
pose,  chin  tilted  and  eyes  upturned.  ' '  Parting  is  such 
sweet  sorrow,  oh !  Did  you  know  they  tried  to  make 
me  play  Juliet,  and  I  couldn't  do  it  for  toffee  ?  When 
she  started  seeing  snakes  and  kicking  up  all  that  dust 
about  it,  I  had  to  laugh,  an'  old  Tubby  got  so  wild 
with  me  he  nearly  went  off  pop !  Such  times  as  we 
had.  Never  no  more,  as  the  raven  said.  Not  now  the 
war's  over.  Three  cheers.  I  always  said  we'd  win 
the  damn  thing,"  she  drawled,  "didn't  I,  Chorlie?" 

She  flung  up  a  leg,  caught  the  toe  in  her  hand,  and 
on  the  other  toe  she  spun  smoothly  round.  Alec 
looked  at  her,  without  a  smile.  He  set  tragic  eyes  on 
her  foolery. 

"Is  it  hard,  doing  that?" 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!     I'm  light,  all  right,  though, 


DISCLOSURES  311 

aren't  I?  Light  on  my  feet.  Tubby  says  I'm  over- 
weight, the  old  beast,  says  I  ought  to  drink  vinegar 
and  not  eat  cake  or  sweets.  But  I  don't  weigh  so 
much,  do  I,  not  more  than  I  ought,  just  you  see!" 
She  went  to  him,  very  innocently. 

"No,  of  course.  I — I'm  sure  you  don't  weigh  too 
much. ' ' 

"Now  just  look!  If  I  haven't  got  a  spot  on  my 
dress!  It's  ink,  I  think  it  is.  However  did  I  go 
and  do  that?" 

"Where?    I  don't  see  it." 

"Don't  look  too  hard,  you'll  strain  your  eyesight. 
Funny  eyes  you  have.  "Wouldn't  like  to  meet  you 
alone  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night." 

"Look  here.     Did  I  hurt  your  arm  then?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  don't  mention  it,  the  pleasure 
is  mine!  Your  eyes  are  queer,  Billie,  they're  like — 
I  don 't  know  what.  No,  you  don 't ! "  Pretending  to 
think  he  was  going  to  catch  at  her  arms  again,  she  put 
her  hands  on  his  wrists.  "Seems  as  though  they 
don't  match  your  hair,  yet  they  do,  sort  of.  Poor 
Billie,  he  looks  so  upset,  I  bet  he's  got  the  toothache. 
Which  side  is  it  on?" 

1 '  You  mustn  't  do  that ! ' ' 

"Poor  thing,  I  didn't  know  it  hurt."  She  went 
on  stroking  his  cheek,  her  eyes  laughed. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  do  it!" 

He  kept  on  hoping  that  he  had  hurt  her  arm. 
There  was  her  parted  mouth  with  its  loose  curve  .  .  . 
he  felt  .  .  .  how  could  he  feel  that?  Betty  knew  at 


312  BRUTE  GODS 

once  what  he  felt,  and  she  looked  at  him  accordingly. 

"I  suppose  you're  a  real  good  boy,  aren't  you?" 
she  observed,  after  a  moment. 

"  'Good'?"  He  was  relieved  by  her  having  said 
something.  "I  don't  care  about  that — 'good'  doesn't 
matter — it  wasn't  that — " 

"  'Good's'  what  I  am,  Billie.     That's  me." 

"Yes,  you  look  as  though  you  were,  there's  some- 
thing— •  But  I  suppose  you  can't  be,  really?" 

"Well,  you've  nerve!  I  s'pose  you  think  just  be- 
cause— oh,  what  should  I  care  what  you  think? 
Doesn't  matter  to  me." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  if  you  weren't  'good.'  ' 

"Oh!" 

"Or  if  nobody  was!  I  don't  believe  in  that.  It's 
something  quite  different — how  could  I  tell  you?  I 
can't." 

"What's  the  trouble,  Billie?  Come  on,  tell  us, 
might  as  well."  She  was  eager  and  friendly. 

"Oh,  I've  been  made  an  utter  fool  of,  that's  all! 
It's  not  your  fault — but  I  won't  be,  not  again,  I 
won't!" 

"My  fault!  I  like  that!"  She  laughed  uneasily. 
He  was  pale,  his  eyes  looked  different,  she  was  in- 
terested intensely  .  .  .  his  eyes.  .  .  .  His  girl  was 
going  with  another  fellow,  she  was  glad.  ' '  Never  you 
mind,  Billie." 

' '  Oh,  I  '11  take  good  care — !  I  wish  you  did  know. ' ' 
He  looked  closely  at  her.  "Good-bye,"  he  said,  and 
was  gone. 

The  little  girl  was  left  puzzled,  indignant.     She 


DISCLOSURES  313 

stood  quite  still,  wondering  what  it  would  have  been 
like  if  he  had  kissed  her.  She  thought  of  a  boy  who 
had,  and  then,  at  once,  she  hadn  't  liked  him  any  more, 
she  hadn't  cared,  but,  before,  she  thought  she  did, 
a  little.  ...  It  wouldn't  have  been  like  that  with 
Billie.  .  .  .  Why  hadn't  he?  " Kissing 's  nothing!" 
"Damn  that  old  scrapbook!"  she  thought  viciously, 
catching  sight  of  it  lying  open  at  the  page  of  the 
Acrostic  verse.  She  took  it  and  tore  the  page  out. 
She  crumpled  it  up  fiercely ;  then,  instead  of  throwing 
it  away,  she  uncrumpled  it  and  read  it  through. 
She  wanted  him  to  have  it,  to  keep  it.  He'd  liked  it. 
Alec,  upstairs  in  his  room,  lay  exhausted.  He'd 
been  flung  down,  left  there.  .  .  .  His  tears  came  slow 
and  cruel. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IT  was  no  less  than  appalling  to  Alec  that  this 
young  girl  should  be  able  so  to  invite  his  mind 
and  his  sense,  that  she  should  beckon  to  him 
thus  from  Gillian's  region.  For  all  the  dissimilarity 
between  Betty  and  Gillian,  Betty  was  offering — he  had 
a  frightful  conviction  of  this — the  same  thing  in  the 
end,  the  same.  The  shock  of  this  discovery  seemed  to 
have  a  positive  physical  force :  it  smote  his  brain,  then 
clutched  it  and  held  it,  motionless  and  fascinated,  up 
against  the  full  face,  the  brute  and  punitive  face  of 
the  fact  disclosed. 

In  and  between  the  sleep  of  that  night  Alec  realized 
more  sharply  certain  identities  of  his  response  to 
either  girl,  identities  that  were  hideous.  In  the 
early  morning,  and  later,  there  were  turnings  and 
changes  of  the  boy's  perceptions,  shifting  focusses  of 
other  expressions  of  that  punitive  face,  other  char- 
acter indications  not  understood,  horribly  bewildering. 
He  resolved  against  the  attempt  to  understand,  he  re- 
solved to  banish  the  whole  wicked  matter:  but  those 
pain-struck  intensities  stayed  in  him,  and  the  two  that 
empowered  them,  the  two  that  crossed  and  merged, 
and  separated  and  conflicted,  the  two  that  were  alien 
and  akin,  kept  their  torturing  play  over  and  through 
his  senses. 

Alec's  physical  attraction  to  Gillian  was  not  done 
with.  It  was  a  more  observable  thing  now,  more  a 

314 


DISCLOSURES  315 

thing  in  itself  than  it  had  been  at  first.  The  usual 
reactions  against  first  disguising  romantic  fervours 
would  not  have  had  time  yet  to  work  their  visible  way, 
but  Gillian,  in  trying  to  obliterate  her  physical  ap- 
peal had  thrown  the  idea  of  it  into  Alec's  foreground, 
she  had  released  him  for  Betty.  Betty  had  freshened 
that  emphasis  so  unwittingly  put,  she  had  quickened 
and  stiffened  it  for  Gillian  as  well  as  for  herself. 
She,  the  new,  the  unexpected  one,  the  stranger,  could 
bear  Gillian's  tokens;  could  show  them  even  more 
sharply  and  strongly  and  stirringly  .  .  .  yes,  in  some 
ways  she  could,  he  knew  now,  and  she  could  bring 
something  else.  ...  It  was  Gillian  who  had  spoken 
of  young  love.  Alec  suddenly  thought  of  Gillian's 
encounter  with  his  father  that  day  by  the  Tower. 
Suppose  his  father  had  found  him  with  Betty  ?  Betty 
would  never  have  been  like  Gillian  was  then,  of  course 
she  couldn't.  .  .  .  He  hadn't  liked  the  way  Gillian 
did  all  that;  he'd  never  let  himself  know,  before, 
how  he  hadn't  liked  it.  ...  He  must  go  away.  Well, 
Gillian  had  wanted  him  to.  Betty  didn't  want  him 
to,  but  he  would  go.  It  had  to  end,  all  of  it.  He 
would  go  away  from  Betty's  house,  he  would  stop 
wanting  Gillian,  he  had  to;  he  wouldn't  take  that, 
not  ever  again  .  .  .  something  that  could  be  shared 
.  .  .  and  all  the  lying  of  the  thing,  the  deceit  .  .  . 
vile.  He  must  get  ready  to  go.  But  he  stayed  sitting 
on  his  bed,  stayed  in  the  clinging  horror  of  his  dis- 
gust. He  had  sense  of  sin  now,  sense  of  evil. 

A  door  opened  and  shut  sharply.     Alec  was  con- 
scious of  a  moving  about  outside  on  the  landing,  he 


316  BRUTE  GODS 

sat  up  stiffly,  alarmed.  There  was  a  whistle,  and, 
after  a  few  moments,  Betty's  voice  calling  her  mother. 
The  boy  listened. 

"What's  made  you  get  up  so  early?"  He  heard 
Mrs.  Barnfield's  voice.  "And  all  dressed  up,  too!" 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  can  get  up  if  I  want  to,  can't 
I  ?  What  you  going  to  do  ? " 

"Goin'  to  do?"  Mrs.  Barnfield's  tone  showed  some 
irritation  and  surprise.  "I'm  goin'  out  to  buy  some 
meat. ' ' 

"What,  now,  you  are?" 

"Yes,  got  my  'at  on  already.  You  want  to  come 
along?" 

"  I  don 't  know.     Think  I  '11  wait  awhile. ' ' 

Alec  was  conscious  of  Mrs.  Barnfield's  descent  of 
the  stairs;  he  waited  for  the  sound  of  the  closing  of 
Betty's  door.  Had  she  closed  it  without  his  hearing? 
He  waited  for  what  seemed  a  very  long  time,  then  he 
heard,  distinctly,  a  quite  different  sound — the  drum- 
ming of  the  girl's  fingers  on  the  bannisters.  At  once 
he  went  out  to  her. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh ! "  She  started,  she  laughed  uneasily.  ' '  Well, 
I  like  that ! ' '  Recovering  herself,  she  looked  straight 
at  him.  "Asking  me  what  I  want,  you've  got  a 
nerve!  I'll  have  a  Scotch  and  potass,  Miss,  and  be 
quick  about  it ! — Come  along,  Billie,  come  along  down, 
might  as  well.  Come  and  talk  to  us,  Billie." 

He  followed  her  slowly,  he  noticed  her  thin  brown 
stockings.  "I'm  going  away  today,"  he  said. 


DISCLOSURES  317 

She  did  not  answer,  she  went  straight  on  into  the 
parlour,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  there  with  her,  she 
shut  the  door  tight. 

''Don't  you  like  me,  eh,  Billie?"  There  was  no 
levity  now,  no  coquetry,  in  her  tone  or  manner.  She 
looked  hard  at  him,  she  stood  quite  still. 

"Why  should  I  tell  you?"  he  said,  turning. 
"What's  the  good  of  telling  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  ask  you,  only  I  know  you  do." 

"Well,  all  right."  He  took  a  step  towards  the 
door.  "If  I  tell  you  that,  won't  it  do?"  It  seemed 
impossible  to  get  to  the  door,  past  her.  All  he  had 
done  was  to  bring  himself  nearer  her.  "I  mean, 
wouldn't  you  let  me  go  then?" 

"Let  you  go,  what  do  you  mean,  Billie?  You  like 
me,  but  you  won't —  Why?" 

"I  told  you  I  couldn't.  Didn't  I  tell  you?  I 
mustn't." 

"'Mustn't'!  Silly!  You  should  just  see  the 
bruise  you  made  on  my  arm,"  she  went  on  with  ap- 
parent irrelevance.  ' '  It  looks  like  anything  this  morn- 
ing. Here's  that  old  book."  She  moved  over  to  the 
shelf,  stooped  down,  leaned  her  head  so  that  her  black 
curls  slipped  over,  showing  her  neck.  "I  don't  want 
that  poem  thing."  She  pretended  to  tear  the  page 
out,  then  took  it  from  her  dress  without  his  seeing. 
"You  keep  it,  if  you  want." 

"All  right.  I  mean,  thank  you. — I  must  go  up- 
stairs, you  know,  and  pack. ' ' 

"Haven't  had  your  breakfast,  have  you?" 


318  BRUTE  GODS 

"I  don't  want  any.  I  mean  I  do,  rather,  but  I'll 
go  out  soon.  I'll  go  out  now.  There's  a  place  quite 
near. ' ' 

"I  can  make  coffee,  I  make  it  all  right,  and  there's 
some  eggs." 

"It's  a  place  by  the  Station — you  know.  It's 
where  I  nearly  always  go." 

"You've  got  a  nice  handkerchief." 

"Yes.  It's  my  father's,  though."  He  pulled  it 
from  his  sleeve.  "I  took  it  by  mistake,  I  had  it 
washed.  Would  you  like  it?" 

"  It 's  a  lovely  one.    All  silk. ' ' 

"You  could  wear  it  somehow,  couldn't  you?" 

She  took  it  from  him,  shook  it  out,  looked  at  it. 
The  pleasure  of  possessing  it  diverted  her.  She  went 
to  the  glass  and  put  the  handkerchief  round  her  hair, 
holding  it  with  her  hand  behind  her  head.  "Looks 
all  right,  doesn't  it?" 

"Keep  it.  You  could  wear  it.  Couldn't  you  wear 
it  close  to  you  ? ' ' 

' '  What  d  'you  mean,  Billie  ? "     She  laughed. 

"I  don't  know,  I  only  thought — " 

He  stood,  seeing  her  broad  laughing  mouth  with  its 
generous  animalism.  He  thought  of  Gillian's  mouth, 
the  intellectual  turn  it  had.  Betty  was  nearer — 
nearer  to  something.  Ah,  she  was  different!  She 
didn't  understand,  but  her  brain  kept  still. 

"  'Thought'!"  She  came  to  him,  her  mouth  still 
laughing.  "You  da  like  me!  You 're  funny!  What 
do  you  think  of  us,  Billie  ?  I  'm  all  right — you  know 
what  I  mean — "  She  let  her  arms  drop,  touching 


DISCLOSURES  319 

him  lightly.  "I  haven't  liked  any  one  else,  I  never 
have!  What  do  you  think,  Billie?" 

''I  told  you—" 

"I  didn't  mean  anything — you  know — "  She 
blushed. 

She  was  grave  again  now,  her  breath  came  brokenly. 
Alec  leant  to  her,  and  the  fragrance  of  a  young  fresh 
girl,  a  little  agitated  by  love,  began  to  seduce  his 
nostrils.  Was  this  what  Gillian  had  said  he  ought 
to  have?  He  wouldn't,  he  couldn't!  Beginning  all 
over  again.  .  .  .  Alec  revolted  with  a  strength  that 
swept  him  clear  of  the  drawing  of  the  tide. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  we  oughtn't,"  Betty  went 
on. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that!" 

"I  know  all  about  Mother's  letting  rooms.  You 
don't  think  I'm — you  don't  think  I'm  like  that,  do 
you  ?  I  wouldn  't  answer  the  bell,  I  wouldn  't ! " 

He  did  not  reply.  He  saw  her  pleading  lips,  her 
troubled  young  eyes,  and  he  turned  his  head.  The 
passionate  loveliness  of  things  flashed  before  him,  he 
rejected  it. 

' '  Let  me  go, ' '  he  told  her,  with  a  decision  that  could 
not  be  defied  or  cajoled.  "You  must." 


REFUGE 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Betty,  your  eyes  dance  down  my  heart, 
Eyes  gay  and  grey  and  wide  apart, 
That  shine  with  teasing  mirth,  and  yet 
Teasing,  they're  kind.  .  .  . 

ALEC,  in  the  train  from  Liverpool  Street,  read 
over  the  ingenious  artist's  Acrostic  Verse;  he 
smoothed  out  that  crumpled  sheet  again. 

The  important  thing  to  him  was  to  get  six  pounds. 
He  had  spent  just  about  that  amount.  If  he  could 
pay  Wilfred  back  the  whole  twenty,  at  once,  that 
would  be  destroying  one  trace,  at  least :  that  was  some- 
thing that  could  be  done.  The  boy's  mind  seized 
avidly  on  the  idea  of  this  payment,  and  clung  hard  to 
it.  For  some  minutes  he  thought  of  nothing  else, 
he  held  by  a  recurring  effort  of  will  to  the  refuge  of 
this  determination  somehow  to  get  six  pounds:  but 
he  could  not  work  his  mind  further,  could  not  de- 
vise any  plan,  however  improbable,  by  which  the 
money  could  be  got. 

Six  pounds.  .  .  .  "Envy  of  April."  .  .  .  "Love- 
ringlets"  .  .  .  how  did  it  end  up? 

No  coming  flower  or  bloom  half-sealed 
For  me  blows  sweeter  up  the  field 
In  spring  than  you,  dear  girl  of  spring — 
Envy  of  April,  you  who  bring 
Love-ringlets  young  and  rich  and  fine, 
Deep  lips  that  mate  with  song  and  wine. 
323 


324  BRUTE  GODS 

Alec  read  in  those  initial  letters  the  name  of  the 
girl  who  had  touched  his  ailing  love  and  shown  it  to 
him,  a  dead  thing.  But  he  did  not — he  would  not! 
— love  her.  Not  again — he  couldn't  face  it  again. 
He  crumpled  the  sheet  and  threw  it  from  the  hurry- 
ing train.  Six  pounds.  .  .  .  After  all  those  passionate 
intimations  of  life,  only  dead  brute  things  left,  brute 
dead  gods.  He  had  been  so  certain ! 

He  thought  of  what  this  love  had  done,  this  love 
that  had  been  so  cunning  and  brutal  and  mortal  a 
trickster,  this  lo  ve  that  was  dead.  Frippie — Father 
Collett — he  had  been  made  to  forget  them,  he  had  been 
closed,  insensate,  against  them,  they  had  been  left,  for- 
gotten like  that  bicycle  that  he  left  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  Doreen,  too.  .  .  .  Then,  his  father — 

Alec 's  love  had  robbed  him  of  his  hate.  The  wrongs 
of  his  brother,  his  stepmother,  Aunt  Cathy,  his  mother, 
could  cry  for  vengeance  in  vain.  Now  both  love  and 
hate  were  gone.  He  could  have  done  something  with 
that  hate,  at  least  he  could  have  started,  with  strong 
impulse,  from  it.  This  he  knew,  and  he  knew  that  now 
he  had  nothing,  that  he  was  left  in  weakness  and  in 
deprivation. 

It  was  not  his  disloyalty,  his  breach  of  faith  to 
Gillian,  it  was  no  such  "moral"  stir  that  hurt  him. 
It  was  the  demolition  of  what  had  seemed  the  very 
fabric  of  himself,  it  was  the  revolutionary  shattering 
of  all  those  high  controlling  values  that  were  to  have 
held  sway  for  ever.  .  .  .  He  had  been  forced,  some- 
how, in  some  unseen  way,  unawares,  robbed,  tricked. 
A  terrible  trick — wicked — a  sinister  and  grinning 


REFUGE  325 

hoax.  Yet  he  had  loved  Gillian,  he  had  been  Gil- 
lian. It  had  all  been  real  and  great,  it  had  been! 
Yet  it  was  gone.  He  could  trust  nothing  in  himself, 
after  this;  he  could  value  nothing,  hold  to  nothing. 
Betty  .  .  .  how  different  from  Gillian  she  was !  No, 
he  didn't  love  her,  he  only  wanted  her:  it  was  some- 
thing much  less,  yet  it  had  driven  out  the  other. 
Alec  did  not  acknowledge  the  first  processes  of  his 
love's  decline,  nor  could  he  estimate  Gillian's  wilful 
part  in  them. 

Gillian,  whose  love  was  alive,  did  acknowledge  and 
estimate.  She  paraded  every  sign  noted  in  those  last 
days,  paraded,  watched,  and  made  much  of  each  in 
turn.  It  was  not  that  she  lacked  the  usual  female 
inclination  against  admitting  anything  wounding  to 
sex-dignity :  she  had  it  strongly,  and  fought  it  strongly, 
both  on  principle  and  to  help  herself  by  the  occupa- 
tion. She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  she  observed 
her  mouth;  and  she  thought  how  it  must  have  lost 
its  power  for  him,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour.  Per- 
haps her  freedom  from  moral  inhibitions  had  helped 
to  take  the  edge  off  his  desire.  Ah,  but  she  had 
wanted  to  do  that ! — It  would  have  been  better  for  her 
to  have  been  less  "emancipated."  Better  still  for 
her  to  have  been  ten  years  younger.  She  thought  of 
Alec,  with  his  experimental  boldness  of  a  novice. 
There  was  still  her  "work".  ...  A  man  and  a  woman 
shouldn't  have  to  stay  together  if  either  of  them 
didn't  want  to — hadn't  she  worked  to  prove  the  truth 
and  the  justice  of  that?  He  didn't  want  to.  ... 
The  magazine  .  .  .  "the  policy  of  the  magazine" 


826  BRUTE  GODS 

.  .  .  her  sense  of  her  importance,  her  "purpose," 
her  independence.  Alec  had  taken  her  old  life  from 
her.  At  least,  then,  he  should  not  have  tired  of  her 
so  soon!  "He  ought  not  to!  he  belongs  to  me!  he 
doesn't  want  me!"  She  watched  the  emotional  flash 
of  her  condemnation  of  him,  she  shivered  in  her  de- 
tached brain.  "Women  should  have  more  pride!" 
The  word  "pride"  sounded  extraordinarily  cold. 
The  freezing  implications  of  her  loss  were  traced  on 
her  mind  with  sharp  little  points  like  the  pricks  of 
an  icicle.  As  a  moral  reformer  she  dutifully  invoked 
the  solace  of  the  reflection  that  she  suffered  not  from 
any  human  contrivance  touching  sex,  but  from  an  ill 
inherent  in  sex  itself. 

She  wished  she  did  not  feel  so  sorry  for  Alec.  It 
would  have  been  easier  if  she  could  have  felt  angry, 
bitter,  really  indignant.  But  her  mind  wouldn  't  give 
indignation  or  anger  a  chance :  her  mind  was  a  wither- 
ing glare  for  such  relieving  emotions.  To  be  denied 
the  safeguard  of  unreason,  that  was  tragic,  it  was 
cruel.  Carlyon- Williams  had  been  right  when  he'd 
called  it  an  inhuman  trick  of  hers,  that  trick  of  ex- 
posing and  criticizing  her  womanish  promptings. 
Perhaps  if  she  had  followed  her  impulse  and  turned 
on  Alec,  turned  on  him  savagely  ...  oh,  she  could 
have  held  him,  she  would  have  reconciled  herself  to 
holding  him,  in  spite  of  everything,  if  she  had  been 
different,  if  she  had  not  had  that  abominably  scrupu- 
lous regard  for  intelligence !  Why  shouldn  't  she  have 
played  her  game,  played  for  her  own  hand,  been  a 
little  less  cursedly  honest  with  herself  and  with  him  ? 


REFUGE  327 

Deception  would  have  been  better  for  both  of  them, 
and  much  prettier.  .  .  .  Gillian  was  convinced,  now, 
that  if  she  hadn't  been  so  stiffly,  so  sophisticatedly 
honest  and  proud,  if  she  had  let  her  intellectual  con- 
science go  to  the  devil,  and  moved  unscrupulously, 
skilfully,  in  her  will,  she  might  have  stayed  with  the 
boy  in  a  ten  years'  marriage  at  the  least,  binding  him 
to  her  all  the  while  by  the  strands  of  a  hundred  ideali- 
ties. Carlyon-Williams  could  get  more  out  of  life 
than  she  could,  after  all !  She  reflected  that  it  was 
no  doubt  from  jealousy  that  she  despised  Williams. 

To  have  kept  her  brain  nagging  at  her  love,  at  the 
boy's  love,  as  she  had!  To  have  allowed  such  a 
tyranny,  which  was,  after  all,  stupid!  If  only  she 
could  have  been  like  Doreen  Burke.  .  .  .  She  had  been 
frantically  moral,  in  her  way,  had  adhered  with  her 
fanatic  brain-conscience  to  that  determined  premise  of 
the  inequality  between  them,  the  impossibility  of  his 
loving  her  for  long.  It  was  precisely  the  most  rapid 
and  the  most  sure  way  of  destroying  Alec's — Alec's — 
his  feeling  for  her.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes,  on  her 
cheeks.  The  betrayal  and  the  corrosion  of  love  by  a 
thing  so  studied,  so  conscious,  so  made-up  and  so  small 
— it  was  small  now — as  her  morality !  It  had  robbed 
them  both,  meanly:  her  brain  and  its  morality  had 
robbed  them.  It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  make  her- 
self believe,  and  him  through  her,  that  their  glamour 
was  light  eternal.  They  could  have  gone  on  together, 
she  was  sure — sure  of  that  now.  Even  at  the  very  end, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  her  ridiculous  "clear  vision," 
and  her  pride,  she  could  have  won  him  back.  If  she 


328  BRUTE  GODS 

had  summoned  even  so  simple,  so  natural  a  quality  as 
tact  .  .  .  the  tact  that  she  was  entirely  capable  of, 
but  that  her  "intellectual  honesty"  habitually  com- 
pelled her  to  reject. 

When,  on  her  return  that  day  from  her  Office,  she 
saw  the  boy  walking  along  the  street  near  her  flat, 
her  love  for  him  gave  her  a  new  touch.  He  was  a  day 
too  soon.  He  had  come  sooner  than  she  had  said 
.  .  .  just  as  he  had  that  time  before.  Her  idea  of 
his  expectancy,  his  impatience  of  the  interval,  shot 
eagerly  to  embrace  her  answer  to  it.  Seeing  her,  he 
drew  his  lips  grimly:  "I  wanted  to  ask  you,"  he 
began,  "I  waited  so  as  to  ask  you — "  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  remember  something  that  he  had  learnt 
by  heart :  then  to  her  ' ' "Well,  what ? "  he  replied :  "I 
would  like  to  marry  you,  I  still  want  to,  you  know." 
His  tone  was  controversial.  Without  answering,  she 
walked  on  with  him  by  her  side  till  they  reached  her 
door,  and,  feeling  for  her  latchkey,  "Why  didn't  you 
go  home  before?"  she  asked  him.  "Before  you'd 
found  out,  before  I  had  to —  I  told  you  to — you 
know."  She  suffered  from  her  hurt  indignant  voice, 
and  at  once  she  sharply  wondered  what  would  have 
happened  if  she  had  pretended  to  misunderstand  him, 
if  she  had  said  yes.  At  least  she  would  have  made 
it  different  then,  and  need  she  have  made  it  what  it 
was?  Need  she  have  made  him  say:  "May  I  go 
then?"  Need  she  have  had  to  turn  from  him  so 
that  he  should  not  see  her  eyes  ?  Need  that  door  have 
closed,  dividing  them?  The  questions  lodged  with 
her.  She  felt  wicked  because,  now  that  she  knew 


REFUGE  329 

he  did  not  want  to  marry  her,  she  could  wish  so 
much  more  urgently  than  ever  that  she  had  brought 
the  marriage  about.  She  knew  nothing  of  Betty. 
TEven  if  she  had  given  him  the  chance,  he  could  not 
have  told  her. 

As  she  undressed,  Gillian  thought  of  Carlyon-Wil- 
liams.  The  thought  of  him  relieved  her,  he  could  be 
a  sort  of  occupation,  why  not?  She  would  make 
him  one.  She  could  touch  Alec  through  him,  through 
the  stepmother,  she  wouldn't  lose  him  altogether.  .  .  . 
What  if  Mrs.  Glaive  came  back  to  Alec,  through  her? 
She  would  still  have  a  sort  of  power  in  his  life,  then. 
"But  what  does  that  matter?" — "I'll  do  it  anyhow! 
I'll  do  it  out  of  sheer  devilry!  It  will  be  some- 
thing—" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"     A      LEG,  you  must  wait." 

/  \          "But  I  can  make  it  certain,  can't  I — 

A.    JL.  somehow — at  once?" 

"How?"     Father  Collett  turned  away. 

"I  mean  make  it  so  that  I  can't  get  out  of  it. 
You  can 't  get  out  of  it,  can  you  ? ' ' 

"Not  after  the  final  vows." 

' '  Can 't  you  take  the  final  vows  at  once  ? ' ' 

"My  dear  Alec,  why  are  they  called  'final'?  How 
in  the  world  could  you  take  them  first?  There  must 
be  probation." 

"But  I  must  take  them,  I  want  to  bind  myself 
now.  Don't  you  see,  I  can't  wait!" 

His  mouth  shook.  It  was  utterly  unbearable  to 
him,  this  delay.  When  he  had  wanted  to  marry  Gil- 
lian, he  couldn  't :  now  that  he  wanted  to  take  religious 
vows,  there  was  the  same  horrible  putting  off.  He 
other  way  was  there  ?  Alec  felt  that  it  would  be  tor- 
ture to  have  to  stand  by  himself,  to  stand,  to  move, 
unbound. 

"It  makes  me  afraid  it  won't  last,  Alec,  you  are 
so  eager — " 

"Oh,  it  will,  but  I  don't  want  to  give  anything 
else  a  chance  of  happening  in  between!  I  won't. 
Look  here,  Father;  I'll  make  it  final,  I'll  make  it 

330 


REFUGE  331 

final  now,  I  can.  I  pray  God — you  hear  what  I'm 
saying  ? — I  pray  Him  to  destroy  me,  my  soul,  I  mean, 
altogether,  if  I  don't  take  the  final  vows  and  keep  to 
them.  I  wish  that.  It's  my  will,  and  I'll  always 
stand  by  it,  I  swear  to  God ! ' ' 

Alec  felt  that  this  declaration  would  be  of  enormous 
import  to  Father  Collett :  he  could  not  feel,  try  as  he 
might,  that  it  was  of  even  considerable  import  to  him- 
self. 

"You've  no  right  to  use  God  in  that  way!"  The 
priest,  for  the  first  time  in  Alec's  experience,  showed 
anger. 

"Why  not?  Can't  I  make  myself  safe?  Can't  I 
get  God  to  make  me  safe  ?  "What  is  the  good  of  him 
if  I  can't?" 

"God  chooses  His  own  way  of  helping  fretful  and 
disappointed  children,  He  doesn't  choose  theirs." 

"But  you  always  wanted  me  to  take  the  religious 
life,  you  said  I — " 

"Yes.  But  not  like  this.  What  has  happened  to 
you,  Alec  ? ' '  He  spoke  less  sternly,  much  more 
sadly. 

"You  know.     I  told  you." 

"It's  just  because  you  thought  you  were  in  love 
and  then  found  you  weren  't  ? " 

"It's  because  I  want  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  all 
that,  well  out  of  the  way,  for  good  and  all!  I  must 
make  sure  it  won't  happen  again,  that's  the  only  im- 
portant thing ! ' ' 

' '  The  only  important  thing  ?  It  wouldn  't  be  right, 
Alec,  on  those  grounds." 


332  BRUTE  GODS 

"Do  you  mean  you  wouldn't  receive  me?" 

"Well.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  what  they — 
You  mustn't  press  me,  Alec.  I  must  think,  I  must 
pray." 

"You  must  tell  me,  please,  at  once,  whether  you  will 
or  not.  If  you  won't,  I  shall  find  something  else  to 
do. ' '  He  got  up. 

"You'll  do  what?" 

' '  I  don 't  know,  but  I  won 't  come  back  to  you.  I  '11 
never  come  back." 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  you  would  take  such 
advantage  of  my  affection. ' '  Father  Collett  was  pale. 
"How  she  has  changed  you!"  he  added,  with  in- 
tense bitterness. 

"Well,  will  you?" 

"I'll  give  no  promise.  I  decline  absolutely  to 
promise.  I  will  not  be  stampeded  in  this  way,  Alec, 
it's  outrageous,  you've  no  right — "  The  boy  turned 
to  the  door.  ' '  You  must  listen  to  me,  you  must  stay ! ' ' 

"What  for?" 

' '  Oh,  Alec,  you  make  me  betray  myself  so  terribly ! 
If  I  did  let  you  go,  what  would  happen  then?  I 
suppose  I  have  no  right  to  inquire  into  your  motives, ' ' 
he  said  weakly,  "to  take  advantage  of  my  private 
knowledge — " 

' '  You  will  let  me  join  the  Order  then  ? ' ' 

"I'll  ask  Father  Renel  to  receive  you  as  a  postu- 
lant." 

"That  will  do." 

"It  must  be  with  your  father's  permission.  You're 
not  yet  twenty." 


REFUGE  333 

"Oh,  he'll  give  it.    "When  do  you  leave  here?" 

"I  go  to  Webley  next  week.  I  shall  have  to  come 
back  for  awhile." 

"I  can  go  next  week  then?" 

' '  Yes.     Say  the  week  after  next. ' ' 

"All  right.  But  I've  taken  the  vows  now,  I've 
taken  them.  And  you  have  to  live  away  from  every- 
body, don't  you?  Away  from  women  and  every- 
thing?" 

"Yes:  there  is  no  outer  life.  I  warn  you,  Alec — 
the  mortification  of  the  flesh — that's  only  a  phrase  to 
you.  Perhaps  you  won't  stand  it." 

"Oh,  I '11  stand  that." 

"The  fasting,  the  long  periods  of  silence.  They 
have  adopted  a  modified  form  of  the  Trappist  Rule. 
For  many  days  you  would  be  thrown  absolutely 
upon  meditation  and  prayer,  upon  yourself,  under 
God." 

' '  Oh,  but  I  could  do  that,  there  would  be  the  others. 
It  would  be — you'd  have  to,  I  mean.  That's  why 
I  could."  He  had  been  so  far  weakened,  destroyed 
so  far. 

"You  would  have  no  money,  ever." 

"I  know.  There's  nothing  in  that,  though;  except 
that  I  do  want  six  pounds,  now." 

"Dear  boy;  do  you  think  you  really — do  you  think 
you  know?" 

"Yes,  I  do!" 

Father  Collett,  praying  God  for  guidance,  looked 
at  the  boy's  hardened  face. 

"And  this  has  all  come  from  me,"  he  said.     "Why 


334  BRUTE  GODS 

do  we  struggle  to  read  God's  ways?  He  uses  even 
sin.  .  .  .  Alec,  she  is  my  daughter. ' ' 

"Oh.  Your  daughter?  Gillian  is,  you  mean? 
Oh,  yes,  you  told  me  about  your  having — I  remem- 
ber. ' '  Finding  the  pause  awkward,  Alec  added :  "I 
hadn't  thought  of  that,  somehow. — I  say,  I'm  sorry 
I  never  wrote  to  you. — I  haven't  been  home  yet," 
he  said  hesitatingly. 

"It's  very  late.    You  had  better  sleep  here." 

"Yes.  You  see  I  came  by  the  last  train.  The 
seven  something.  What  time  does  it  leave?  Seven 
thirty-seven — or  twenty-seven.  That  new  train." 
He  wanted  to  ask  for  a  timetable.  "You  know, 
Father,  it's  twenty-seven,  I'm  almost  sure."  He 
went  on  about  the  train  with  a  dreamy  tenacity,  a 
queer  brooding  absorption. 

"Well,  I'll  get  out  some  sheets  for  you.  So  you 
came  from  the  Station  straight  to  me?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  wanted  to  make  certain  about  the 
monastery — the  Order." 

"Do  you  want  me  for  anything  else?"  Father 
Collett  winced. 

"Yes,  if  you  could  lend  me  six  pounds.  I  want  to 
give  it  back  to  Wilfred  Vail.  He  lent  it  to  me  to  go 
to  London  with." 

"Oh,  you  asked  himf" 

"I  couldn't  have  asked  you,  not  for  that,  could  I? 
I'll  get  the  six  pounds  from  my  father  soon,  but  I'd 
rather,  you  see,  just  for  the  time — " 

"Of  course  I'll  lend  it  to  you." 


REFUGE  335 

" Thanks  awfully."  Alec  spoke  with  immense  re- 
lief. "If  you  could  let  me  have  it  tonight?" 

The  priest  assented.  He  looked  hurt  and  worn. 
He  thought  of  his  prayers  for  Alec,  of  how  he  had 
prayed  that  Alec  should  be  called  to  the  religious 
life,  to  spiritual  dedication.  God  had  answered,  and 
not  answered  him.  It  was  all  disquietingly  different 
from  his  expectation.  Father  Collett  was  entangled 
in  wrong-seeming  complications  of  feeling  that  vexed 
him  deeply,  troubled  him  deeply.  He  felt  sharply 
his  own  weakness,  he  wondered  if  God,  in  afflicting 
him  with  weakness,  could  think  it  just  to  punish  Alec 
with  the  weakness  as  well  as  himself.  Would  that 
be  just?  He  shuddered  at  his  doubt.  Only  today 
Alec  was  with  Gillian.  "She  lost  him  too,"  he 
thought,  and  could  not  but  be  comforted  by  that. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MR.  GLAIVE  himself  opened  the  front  door 
the  next  morning  to  his  returning  son. 
He  had  seen  him  from  the  Study  window. 
"So  you're  back,"  he  said.     "You've  heard  what's 
happened  ?     She 's  left  him. ' ' 

"Who?" 

"Run  away  to  the  Continent.  She's  taken  up 
capital,  no  doubt.  None  of  her  dividends  are  due 
till  next  month,  that  I  know.  It  proves  I  was  right, 
it  was  all  a  trick  to  disgrace  me  and  the  family. 
Sheer  malice.  She  never  cared  for  him,  he  didn't, 
either—" 

"Oh,  you  mean  Williams  and — " 

"That  man  and  his  mistress,  yes.  She's  written, 
says  she'll  never  come  back,  says  she'll  live  alone. 
Simple  spite,  of  course.  Not  that  I  would  ever  dream 
of  receiving — " 

Alec  walked  with  his  father  into  the  diningroom. 
Aunt  Cathy,  the  only  person  there,  rose  on  their  en- 
trance and  advanced  in  a  frightened  and  questioning 
manner. 

"Oh,  Sidney!" 

"Alec  come  back.  Been  staying  with  those  friends 
of  his — you  know,  school-friends,  Mellor,  that's  the 
name,  isn't  it?" 

336 


REFUGE  337 

"  'Mellor'?— oh,  yes." 

Mrs.  Mowry  regarded  them  both  with  melancholy 
agitation.  "How  long  ago  was  it,"  she  went  on  sus- 
piciously, "since  that  Dick  Mellor  came  to  stay  with 
us?  Alec  was  almost  a  little  boy. " 

"Yes,  yes,  quite  early  in  the  war.  When  one's 
friends  still  had  their  men  servants." 

"You're  going  to  stay  at  home  now,  Alec,  aren't 
you?"  Mrs.  Mowry  asked  intently. 

"No,  I'm  not,  that's  what  I  was  going  to — " 

"As  I  was  saying,  the  whole  thing's  utterly  beneath 
contempt.  But  they're  the  ones  that  are  hurt  most. 
The  man  can't  help  not  being  a  gentleman,  of  course. 
.  .  .  Do  you  remember,  Catherine,  he  pronounced 
'valet'  'vally'?  The  right  people — the  people  who 
have  them,  you  know — of  course  they  call  them 
'valets',  Anglicize  the  word.  An  outsider — " 

"I  feel  so  thankful  that  she's  no  longer — that  she's 
alone,  now." 

"We  have  dismissed  the  whole  matter,  Catherine. 
I  would  ask  you  to  remember  that. — I  was  going  to 
read  you  this  leading  article. ' '  He  took  up  the  news- 
paper and  settled  himself  in  a  chair.  "Remarkably 
sound.  Ah,  there's  Mervyn.  Alec  came  back  from 
the  Mellors  this  morning,  I  meant  to  have  told  you 
yesterday.  I  want  you  to  hear  this,  remarkably  well 
put,  just  what  I  was  telling  Resine  the  other  day." 
He  proceeded  to  read  aloud  to  them,  he  soon  felt  as 
though  he  had  written  the  article  himself,  he  read  it 
as  though  he  had. 

The  boys  stood  uneasily  by  the  door.     They  had 


338  BRUTE  GODS 

hardly  looked  at  one  another.  Mrs.  Mowry  sat  with 
an  air  of  patient  intelligence,  her  hands  clasped. 
Alec  thought  of  the  last  time  the  four  of  them  were 
assembled;  he  thought  of  Frippie,  wondered  how  it 
could  be  that  Prippie  was  so  utterly  blotted  out. 

The  reading  ended,  and  the  boys  escaped  abruptly. 
Alec  felt  disturbed  by  his  brother's  presence.  Of 
course  Mervyn  would  ask  him  questions,  and  he 
wouldn  't  be  able  to  tell  him,  he  couldn  't  possibly  make 
him  understand.  Until  they  got  to  the  shrubbery, 
well  away  from  the  house,  neither  of  them  spoke. 
Then  Mervyn  said  suddenly :  ' '  The  day 's  fixed. ' ' 

"Fixed?    What  is?" 

"My  gettin'  married,  of  course,  what  d'you  think? 
Twenty-second  of  September." 

"Well,  you  don't  care  about  her,  do  you?" 

"Shut  up.     What  are  you  rubbin'  it  in  for?" 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  don't,  that's  what  I  mean. 
You  ought  to  be  glad  you  aren't  in  love,  it's  a  good 
thing,  it  is  really,  I  tell  you  I  know — " 

"Don't  talk  rot." 

"It  isn't  rot,  I  tell  you.  I  mean  you  won't  be  like 
me,  you'll  never  have  that  sort  of —  It'd  be  awful 
having  it  if  you  were  married,  it'd  be  even  worse, 
you  see.  I  never  will,  though,  I'll  take  good  care!" 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  babblin'  about?  You 
know  what  I  found  out?  The  guv 'nor  had  a  book 
sent  him,  some  book  about  cuckolds,  that  means  men 
whose  wives  aren't  on  the  square — and  it  was  old 
Resine  who  sent  it,  what  d'you  think  of  that,  turned 
down  the  page,  foolin'  the  guv 'nor,  d'you  see?" 


REFUGE  339 

"Well,  what—  ?" 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could  tell  him!" 

"Why  don't  you  then?" 

"Not  much  wedding  then,  you  bet,  but,  Lord,  I 
can't,  it'd  be  too  low  down." 

"How  good  you  are!"  said  Alec  contemptuously. 

"  'Good'?  What  do  you  mean?  I'm  not  'good.' 
Simply  can't  do  it,  that's  all,  wish  I  could.  Damn 
nuisance. ' ' 

"Perhaps  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference." 

"Of  course  it  would,  you  ass.  Don't  I  know  the 
guv 'nor?  One  thing  he  can't  stand  at  any  price, 
bein'  laughed  at.  He'd  never  forgive  Resine,  never 
would;  do  anything  to  spite  him." 

"Well,  I'd  tell  him."    Alec  was  listless. 

"Can't.  I  got  to  know  through  Dolly,  you  see 
that's  why  I  couldn't  possibly —  Wouldn't  be  fair, 
anyhow.  Oh,  damn.  Don't  suppose  the  whole  busi- 
ness matters  so  awful  much,  after  all." 

Alec  did  not  feel  inclined  to  contradict  him,  but 
"Any thing's  fair,"  he  said,  "when  everything's  so 
unfair. ' ' 

"What's  that?    Damn  funny  way  of  talkin'." 

"Life's  only  like  a  sort  of  cheap  suit,  that's  all,  not 
worth  taking  care  of,  isn't  worth  keeping  clean,  or 
anything. ' ' 

"Aunt  Cathy  gets  on  my  nerves.  You  know  she 
got  wind  of  my  wantin'  to  back  out,  guv 'nor  told  her, 
I  suppose,  an'  she  said  she'd  given  Nita  some  things, 
blest  if  I  remember  what  they  were,  family  things, 
bloomin'  lace  or  something,  and  she  nearly  started 


340  BRUTE  GODS 

blubbin'  over  the  idea  of  havin'  to  take  them  back. 
"Women  are  the  limit.  She  said  we'd  make  such  a 
handsome  pair.  Pair  of  trousers.  Then  there's  old 
Resine,"  he  went  on  more  fretfully.  Alec  noticed 
that  he  looked  older,  noticed  a  little  twist  of  set  ill- 
humour  about  the  corners  of  his  lips — he  wasn't  so 
goodlooking.  "Old  Resine,  with  that  'As  I  always 
say' — you  know.  Makes  me  sick.  'A  bird  in  the 
hand,  as  I  always  say.'  'She's  no  chicken,  as  I  al- 
ways say.'  'Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  as  I  always  say.' 
And  Mrs.  Resine 's  gettin*  fatter  an'  fatter,  looks  it 
all  the  more  when  she's  dressed  up,  like  she  will  be 
at  the  wedding.  Says  she  thinks  of  me  as  her  'real 
son'  now,  says  I  must  call  her  'Mother.'  God,  what 
bindles!" 

"I  say,  what  was  it  like  when  you  first  found  out 
that  you  didn  't  care  about  Nita  any  more  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  shut  up.    I  don 't  know. ' ' 

"  'Don't know'!" 

"It  was  so  beastly  gradual,  I  didn't  think  about  it 
at  first,  didn't  want  to  think.  ..." 

"It  wasn't  that  way  with  me.     It  was — " 

Alec  broke  off.  Mervyn  evidently  had  no  interest 
at  all  in  the  way  it  was  with  him.  There  was  the 
guv 'nor,  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  Williams  busi- 
ness, and  there  was  Mervyn  only  thinking  about  this 
marriage  .  .  .  both  of  them  the  same. 

"I'm  going  to  join  the  Order  at  Webley,"  he  an- 
nounced, raising  his  voice  against  his  brother's  in- 
difference. 


REFUGE  341 

"What  for?  You  aren't  really,  are  you,  bet  you 
get  fed  up. ' ' 

"No,  I  shan't,  I—" 

"I'll  get  used  to  it  all  right,  I  suppose — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  you  seem  to  be  able  to — " 

"Oh,  well."  Mervyn  stared,  still  invoking  the 
poisonous  leer  of  custom.  "Well,  what's  the  idea?" 
He  broke  his  consoling  reflection.  "Devilish  lively 
idea,  I  must  say. ' ' 

"What  11  the  guv 'nor  do?" 

"Oh,  'won't  trouble  him.  Get  you  off  his  hands. 
He'll  save  money.  Besides,  it's  a  fairly  classy  thing 
to  do,  joining  an  Order.  It  occurred  to  me,  you  know, 
about  Dolly.  Of  course  we  couldn't  marry.  If  she 
had  to  be  a  servant,  that's  what  I've  been  thinkin', 
why  the  devil  shouldn't  she  go  and  get  some  money 
out  of  it?  Get  well  paid.  They  are,  now.  More 
than  I  could  do  for  her.  Why  shouldn't  she,  eh?" 
He  seemed  much  impressed. 

' '  '  Classy '  ?    Why  is  it  classy  ? ' ' 

"What,  housework?  Oh,  that  bloomin'  monastery. 
Who's  the  chap  who  runs  it,  some  relation  to  Lord 
Beauvais,  isn't  he?" 

"Father  Eenel." 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  an  'Honourable.'  That's  good 
enough,  that'll  settle  it  with  the  guv 'nor.  Good  old 
guv 'nor,  don't  worry  about  him.  He'll  come  out  all 
right  one  way  and  another,  don 't  you  fear. ' ' 

Alec  remembered  how  he  had  thought  of  killing 
his  father.  Now,  he  wouldn't  have  raised  his  hand. 


342  BRUTE  GODS 

Mervyn  was  silent.  He  was  thinking  about  the  mar- 
riage, of  course,  about  Nita  or  Dolly.  The  guv 'nor 
was  thinking  about  the  Mater  in  France  or  somewhere. 
Aunt  Cathy  .  .  .  she  was  no  good:  thinking  about 
her  lace,  perhaps,  thinking  of  one  little  thing  after 
another,  the  way  she  talked.  Alec  wanted  to  go  to 
"Wilfred  Vail,  but  he  shrank  from  having  to  admit 
to  Wilfred  that  it  was  all  over  so  soon.  Now  that  he 
had  the  six  pounds  it  did  not  seem  so  important  to 
give  it  back,  and  there  was  pain  for  him  in  the  prospect 
of  meeting  his  friend,  because  they  really  liked  one 
another. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  visit  to  Wilfred  Vail  hung  waiting  for 
more  than  a  month,  until  Alec's  refuge  at 
Webley  was  settled  and  immediate.     Mer- 
vyn  's  departure  with  his  bride  for  Derbyshire  diverted 
the  dull  strong  shallow  current  of  Alec's  persistency, 
brought  him  an  intervening  loneliness  and  heavy  won- 
dering that  turned  him  to  his  friend. 

A  letter  from  Gillian,  received  on  the  morning  after 
his  brother's  wedding,  gave  the  boy  further  need  of 
Wilfred  Vail.  He  could  not  understand  the  letter, 
which  Gillian  had  written  for  the  mere  relief  of 
writing  it,  her  conscious  reason  being  that  she  must 
make  a  last  effort  at  clarifying  the  situation  by  honesty 
and  frankness.  Her  ''sheer  devilry"  had  failed  her 
sadly,  and  she  tried  to  describe  the  poor  collapse  of 
the  mood  in  which  she  had  wanted  to  act  with  Wil- 
liams, who,  when  she  met  him,  had  heard  of  Miriam's 
escape  to  France.  She  had  seen  him  fresh  from  the 
blow;  she  pictured,  with  an  irony  wasted  on  Alec, 
his  "fortitude,"  his  "unshattered  faith."  She  pre- 
sented an  image  of  the  successful  idealist,  his  faith 
unshattered,  turning  his  fine  back  on  the  changeling 
faces  of  his  misadventures.  She  was  candid  enough 
to  admit  that  she  was  edged  by  a  malice  not  free  from 
envy.  "Why  should  she  envy  Williams?"  Alec 
thought.  ' '  Because  he  isn  't  in  love,  because  she 's  un- 

343 


344  BRUTE  GODS 

happy?"  He  reflected  vaguely:  his  reflection  had 
little  to  do  with  him. 

He  found  Wilfred  reading  a  book  about  agricul- 
tural machinery.  His  friend's  familiar  look  of  mild 
and  lucid  satisfaction  struck  him  freshly ;  but,  unlike 
Gillian,  he  was  not  envious.  He  knew  that  what  Wil- 
fred had  was  not  what  he  himself  could  have  had, 
but  had  missed.  Wilfred  got  up  and  regarded  him 
closely. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "so  you  got  tired  of  your  new 
toy." 

"Oh,  you  think  that  was  all  it— all  I—" 

"I  knew  you  were  bound  to  take  it  seriously,  how- 
ever it  went.  Well.  And  how  far  did  you  go  ?  We 
may  as  well  stroll  in  the  garden,  that's  something  you 
can  do  under  any  circumstances.  Without  indecorum. 
I  was  thinking  about  you  this  morning."  He  took 
Alec's  arm  and  they  went  out  together.  "Now  about 
your  affair?  I  gather,  from  developments,  that  it 
must  have  been  something  more  than,  shall  we  say 
romantically  Platonic  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  yes!" 

1 '  Your  first,  then.     And  hers  ? ' ' 

"Of  course!" 

' '  Good. ' '  Wilfred  nodded  benevolently.  ' '  Forgive 
my  unseemly  curiosity. — That's  to  your  credit,  Alec. 
Virginity  is  a  grace  at  sixteen,  an  inconvenience  at 
twenty,  and  a  curse  at  twenty-five.  Politics  are  rather 
interesting  just  now.  There's  no  doubt,  you  know, 
that  your  father  is  a  very  clever  man." 

"I  hope  I'm  not  clever,  then." 


REFUGE  345 

"No.  You  might  have  been  a  sort  of  a  genius  with 
a  few  additions  and  alterations,  but  your  qualities 
were  put  together  so  that  they  wouldn't  work.  Who 
knows,  though?  They  may.  Don't  let  me  depress 
you!" 

"I  don't  want  them  to  work — " 

"Your  father's  qualities  certainly  work  admirably. 
Look  at  those  roses,  they  '11  soon  be  gone.  That  fellow 
Perry  ought  to  give  him  a  testimonial,  but  no  doubt 
he'll  give  himself  one  instead.  I  like  the  yellow  ones 
the  best,  the  yellow  roses.  He's  getting  on  famously, 
certain  of  the  seat  now,  absolutely  certain.  But  what 
a  mistake  that  was,  that  affair  in  Ireland,  killing 
Matcham,  whoever  did  it — " 

"Matcham!    What  do  you—?" 

"Didn't  you  know?  In  this  morning's  paper.  He 
was  shot  in  one  of  those  Irish  brawls. ' ' 

' '  Who  shot  him  ? ' '    Alec 's  voice  shook. 

"A  stray  bullet,  so  they  say.  It  was  probably  ar- 
ranged. Yes,  he  was  shot  dead." 

' '  What  do  you  mean,  '  arranged '  ? " 

' '  Oh,  people  will  fight  just  as  hard  to  keep  what  they 
have  as  to  get  what  they  haven't.  They'll  fight 
harder.  More  unscrupulously.  I  don't  blame  them, 
but  this  was  a  stupid  thing.  Your  father  knows 
better.  He  knows  how  to  keep  his  head  and  do  little 
things  in  the  right  way.  Funny  what  little  things 
please  them.  Yes,  and  it's  a  funny  thing,  Alec,  but 
it's  perfectly  true,  that  a  man  will  fight  with  more 
energy  and  more  passion  to  keep  his  position  in  society 
— his  town  house,  his  country  house,  his  big  motor 


346  BRUTE  GODS 

— than  he  will  to  get  food  when  he  and  his  family 
haven't  enough  of  it.  That's  why  the  economic  rev- 
olution is  impossible.  Don't  you  think  of  these 
things  ?  You  '11  realize  when  you  're  a  bit  older,  you  '11 
know — " 

"What's  the  use  of  knowing  things  like  that?  I 
don't  want  to.  Thank  God,  I'll  be  out  of  it,  I'll  be 
out  of  all  that— " 

"Oh,  we  have  to  know  how  to  take  it,  of  course." 

"It's  awful,  about  Matcham.  I  shall  never  forget 
him.  I  '11  never  forget  that  time  I  heard  him  speak. ' ' 

"Oh,  that  speech  about  the  'brute  gods.'  Yes,  you 
told  me.  Solemn  trivialities — " 

"I  didn't  know  Love  was  a  brute  god,  though,  not 
then.  Matcham —  He  made  me  see — in  a  sort  of 
way,  though  it  wasn't  clear.  But  he  set  me  going. 
Then  I  was  stopped.  That  other  thing. ' ' 

"How  hard  you  take  it.  After  all,  what  is  it  that's 
happened  to  you?  You  fell  in  love,  and  you  fell  out 
of  love.  The  mask  dropped  more  quickly  than  usual, 
apparently.  The  rose-pink  mask.  Mask  of  rose. 
Well,  it  dropped,  and  you  were  terribly  shocked  and 
jolted,  of  course  you  were.  But  yours  is  an  end- 
lessly common  experience." 

"It  isn't  common.  Not  the  way  it  happened  to  me. 
Oh,  it  was  such  beastly  lying,  it  was  such  treachery 
and  deceit!" 

"It  always  is.  Love's  the  eternal  impostor.  A 
brutal  betrayal,  I  suppose  it  is,  and  it  always  will  be, 
no  help  for  that.  'Whom  God  hath  joined — '  Was 


REFUGE  347 

that  divine  irony  or  merely  celibate  ignorance,  I 
wonder  ? ' ' 

"I  suppose  I  was  hit  too  soon  and  too  hard,  too 
many  things  at  the  same  time — different  things  all 
at  once.  It  sounds  absurd,  but  I  really  do  feel  finished. 
I  don 't  feel  I  can  start  again.  I  can 't  stand  anything 
more  of  that  sort." 

' '  Why  not  try  something  of  a  different  sort,  then  ? ' ' 

"That's  just  what  I  am  doing.  I'm  joining  that 
Order  of  Father  Collett's,  the  one  at  Webley.  It's  all 
settled  now." 

"Oh,  dear,  yes.  I've  heard,  of  course.  I  don't 
take  it  seriously  in  the  least.  You'd  never  be  fat 
enough  for  a  monk.  This  is  the  place  where  we  felt 
that  sudden  warm  breath  of  wind,  you  remember? 
Last  summer  or  the  summer  before.  Strawberries 
were  in  season  at  the  time,  and  I  knew  nothing  about 
motors.  You've  grown  up  since  then,  I  can  see  you 
have.  A  little  bit,  anyhow?" 

"It's  horrible,  brute  force.  .  .  .  And  Matcham  had 
a  fine  face.  I  remember  just  how  he  looked.  A  bul- 
let can  break  a  brain,  you  can't  get  over  that.  Just 
brute  force.  It's  how  things  are.  It's  awfully  deep 
down  in  everything,  and  it's  horrible.  You  can't 
stop  it  anyhow.  You  said  yourself  that  if  the  brute 
gods  were  pulled  down  there 'd  only  be  new  ones  grow 
up.  That's  true.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  suppose  it's 
human  nature  I  can't  stand — human  nature  in  me 
too,  perhaps — " 

"Oh,  quarrel  with  the  world  as  much  as  you  like! 
Why  not  ?  Let 's  go  to  lunch, ' ' 


348  BRUTE  GODS 

"The  queer  thing  is  that  though  it  was  I  who  left 
off  being  in  love  with  Gillian,  she'll  get  over  it  and  I 
won't." 

"No."  Wilfred  led  him  back  towards  the  house. 
"You  won't  get  over  it  in  that  Order  of  yours,  where 
I  expect  you'll  stay  a  couple  of  months.  I  said  you'd 
grown  up,  but  you  may  be  something  of  a  baby  even 
now.  I  can't  believe  in  this  irreconcilable  quarrel 
with  human  nature  at  your  age.  You'll  grow  out  of 
that." 

"It  would  be  much  worse  if  I  did.  But  I  don't 
want  to  'quarrel'  with  human  nature,  with  the  world. 
I  do  know  I  can't  help  and  I  can't  stay  in  it,  the 
whole  thing's  too  horribly  clear.  I  can't  live  it  out. 
And  I  can't  kill  myself.  I  couldn't  even  kill  my 
father.  I  don't  think  I'm  a  baby  now  in  any  way 
that  will  help  me.  Of  course  if  I  were  stronger  I 
wouldn't  be  doing  this,  I  know  that.  But  then  if  I 
were  weaker,  I  wouldn't  either." 

"But  be  practical.  The  point  is,  don't  let  Nature 
quarrel  with  you.  No  one  could  be  less  intended  for 
abstinence.  And  after  that  affair  in  London,  of  course 
that'll  make  it  worse.  What  will  happen  is — to  put 
it  plainly — "  He  put  it  plainly,  and  vividly. 

' '  Oh,  that 's  nothing.  I  can  easily  put  up  with  that. 
Oh,  I  forgot,  here's  that  money.  Thanks  awfully." 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  Wilfred  stopped  and 
examined  the  notes  that  lay  in  his  palm.  He  was 
visibly  impressed  by  the  presence,  within  so  small 
a  compass,  of  such  considerable  purchasing  power. 
"That  don't  look  much  i'  th'  hand,"  he  observed 


REFUGE  349 

slowly,  in  Suffolk.  "But  that  fare  a  lot  t'  part  wuth. 
Don't  you  want  to  keep  some  of  it?"  He  continued 
to  regard  the  money,  his  expression  was  half -puzzled, 
it  was  unworldly.  "If  I  buy  a  new  lathe  now,  I 
shall  feel  just  as  though  you  had  given  it  to  me." 

"That's  what  interests  you!" 

' '  Did  I  hurt  your  feelings  ?  I  'm  sorry.  But  after 
all,  however  bad  the  world  is,  there  are  still  motors, 
and  cigarettes.  We've  time  for  one  before  lunch,  I 
think." 

They  turned  back  down  the  path,  smoking,  and  Alec 
felt  that  it  would  be  hard  to  part  with  "Wilfred.  How 
well  Wilfred  could  get  on,  without  being  bound! 
The  boy,  occupied  painfully  with  their  friendship,  be- 
came inattentive. 

"You  see,"  Wilfred  was  saying,  "you've  sown  your 
wild  oats  in  such  a  tearing  hurry  that  the  crop  won't 
grow.  Not  in  the  right  way.  That's  what  I'm  afraid 
of.  You'll  have  to  do  it  all  over  again.  You  always 
were  impatient." 

"I've  thought  about  that.  This  sex  thing.  It's 
either  marriage  or  'wild  oats'  or  cutting  off  alto- 
gether. I'd  rather  cut  off,  and  I  don't  think  I'll 
want  to  change,  whatever  happens.  Marriage  would 
be  worse."  He  thought  this  would  appeal  to  his 
friend.  "Marriage  would  be  worse  than  the  Order." 

"Ah,  well  then,  why  not  give  debauchery  a  trial? 
'There  were  three  young  men  of  St.  Louis,  The 
pandar,  the  rake,  and  the  roue — '  But  I'm  perfectly 
serious.  You  need  a  purge  of  some  sort.  A  month  or 
two  of  unbridled  dissipation  in,  say,  Port  Said  or 


350  BRUTE  GODS 

Tangier — something  quite  new — would  get  all  this  out 
of  your  system.  With  the  proper  precautions.  Of 
course  I  can't  recommend  these  places  personally,  but 
I  have  the  authority  of  a  friend  who's  very  trust- 
worthy in  such  matters.  I  'd  even  lend  you  the  twenty 
pounds  again,  you've  repaid  it  so  promptly.  Twenty 
pounds  would  pay  your  fare  one  way,  anyhow." 

Alec  shook  his  head  with  a  strained  smile.  "Of 
course  debauchery  is  less  serious  than  marriage,"  he 
said,  "but  it's  sillier." 

"Impossible.  Why  rail  at  marriage,  though?  We 
aren't  married.  So  it's  to  be  this  religious  Order. 
For  life,  I  suppose?" 

' '  Certainly  for  life.  I  have  to  be  a  postulant  first, 
but  that  doesn't — " 

' '  My  dear  boy,  you  '11  be  out  of  it  before  you  're  half- 
way through  your  postulating." 

"I  shan't  be." 

"Forgive  me  if  I  show  lack  of  tact,  but  you  haven't, 
I  suppose,  any  actual  religious  belief?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I  have.  Does  that  matter?  Yes,  1 
have.  If  anything  is  right,  religious  belief  is  right. 
I  mean  the  real  thing,  of  course." 

"The  sort  of  thing  you  get  in  Orders?" 

"The  belief  Father  Collett  has.  It  must  be  right 
because  it's  so  utterly  against — " 

"Human  nature!" 

"Yes,  and  against  the  world.     Yes." 

"You  show  me  religion  as  the  last  resort  of  the 
pessimist. ' ' 

They  were  silent,  then  Alec  said  suddenly:    "Gil- 


REFUGE  351 

liau  told  me  once  that  women — "  He  stopped.  The 
cleverness  in  the  ring  of  her  words  made  him  shy  of 
repeating  them.  "She  said  women  had  always  been 
the  camp-followers  of  the  big  battalions." 

"Excellent.     A  capital  phrase." 

"Well,  that's  what  we  all  are,  it's  what  we  all  turn 
into  if  we  stay  here  long  enough.  You  won't,  of 
course,  but  then  I  couldn't  be  you.  Most  people,  if 
they  escape  one  of  the  battalions,  they  find  them- 
selves in  with  another." 

"But  isn't  that  what  you're  doing  with  religion?" 

"That's  not  the  same.  It's  outside  the  battalions, 
it's  sort  of  off  their  ground. — It's  my  only  way,  Wil- 
fred, don't  try  to  argue  me  out  of  it." 

"I  wouldn't  for  anything  make  you  more  deter- 
mined by  opposition.  I  know  you,  you  see.  When 
your  mouth  goes  like  that,  you  might  as  well  try 
to  argue  with  a  seized  back-axle  or  a  broken  crank- 
shaft. If  you  must  go  running  for  refuge  to  the 
arms  of  a  staggering  faith —  I  wish  your  Gillian  had 
lasted  longer.  I  like  that  phrase  of  hers.  I  '11  pass  it 
on  to  Teddy.  Being  a  doctor,  he'll  appreciate  it. 
Most  doctors  despise  women,  did  you  know?  It's 
because  they — " 

"You  see,  you  can  go  on,  Wilfred,  as  you  are. 
You  have  your  life.  You  haven't  had — well,  you 
haven't  had  anything  done  to  you.  I  wish  I  could 
explain  it  better. — I  can't  stand  the — the  sort  of 
ignominy  of  going  on,  now  I'm  scrapped." 

"You  don't  look  it,  Alec,  you  don't  look  scrapped. 
Even  though  you  did  get  drunk  at  the  wedding." 


352  BRUTE  GODS 

"Oh!"  Alec  blushed.  "Well,  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do!  If  you  could  have  seen  them  all!  Poor 
Mervyn —  "What  did  you  hear  about  it  ?  I  remember 
going  from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other  and  drink- 
ing up  all  the  champagne  that  was  left  in  the  glasses. ' ' 

"Oh,  Carnival?" 

"No,  I  wanted  to  show  them  what  I  thought.  I 
don't  suppose  I  did,  though.  It  was  because  of  the 
doctor's  jokes,  and  Mrs.  Resine.  She  looked  like  a 
fat  old — what  do  you  call  those  old  women?" 

"  'Procuress'?" 

"Yes,  she  looked  just  like  a  fat  old  procuress,  there 
with  Nita.  Much  more  like  one  than  Mrs.  Barnfield. ' ' 

"Who's  Mrs.  Barnfield?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  know.  It  doesn't  matter.  My 
father  said  it  was  very  bad  form.  Not  my  getting 
drunk,  so  much,  he  wasn't  exactly  sober  himself. 
He  made  a  speech,  said  that  his  son's  wedding  made 
him  feel  that  he  'd  live  for  ever.  '  Non  omnis  moriar, ' 
that  was  what  he  ended  up  with,  and  Mervyn  said  he 
hoped  a  good  deal  of  him  would,  anyhow." 

"Your  brother  should  have  said  that  in  his  speech 
of  response." 

"Oh,  no,"  Alec  replied  gravely,  "he  only  said  it 
to  me.  My  father  didn't  hear.  He  enjoyed  every- 
thing except  my  doing  that.  You  know,  mopping  it 
up  from  the  bottoms  of  the  glasses  like  I  did. ' ' 

"Yes.  A  sort  of  gesture.  I  understand.  You 
wanted  to  reduce  the  whole  thing  to  the  level  where 
you  thought  it  ought  to  be.  Bring  it  into  contempt. 
That's  interesting." 


REFUGE  353 

' '  Something  like  that,  I  suppose  so.  A  '  gesture. '  I 
might  have  found  a  better  one.  Perhaps  I  have — 
or  I  shall.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  seen  by  what 
happened  to  Mervyn,  I  ought  to  have —  But  with 
him  it  was  so  different." 

"We'll  be  late  for  lunch." 

"I'm  going." 

Wilfred  Vail,  looking  at  him,  did  not  press  him  to 
stay.  "You'll  cut  through  at  the  end  of  the  near 
drive?"  was  all  he  said. 

"Yes,  I'm  walking  back.    Good-bye." 

"Au  revoir." 

Alec's  reluctance  quickened  his  steps.  He  resented 
the  memories  of  Wilfred  that  came  crowding  his 
brain,  he  ejected  them.  He  replaced  them  forcibly 
with  thoughts  of  Father  Collett.  He  recalled  his  last 
interview  with  the  priest,  and  their  parting — not  a 
casual  parting  like  this  one,  although  it  was  only  for 
a  short  time.  Father  Collett  had  spoken  impressively, 
finally.  He  had  made  himself  believe,  by  that  time, 
that  God  pointed  Alec.  He  had  talked  of  Alec's 
youth.  "Your  wings  of  the  morning,  He  has  shewn 
them  their  way."  The  boy  tried  to  remember  the 
words,  exactly.  He  had  tried  the  day  after  his 
visit  to  Webley,  the  day  of  the  wedding.  .  .  .  Quota- 
tions from  the  Bible.  .  .  .  Father  Renel,  too;  he  had 
quoted  something  .  .  .  fine  .  .  .  poetry.  The  more 
wine  Alec  had  swallowed,  the  more  it  had  seemed 
to  him  important  to  remember:  he  was  so  sure  that 
the  words  would  sound  finer  than  ever  because  of 
his  being  drunk.  But  his  memory  had  continued  to 


354  BRUTE  GODS 

grasp  emptily.  "What  a  pity  Christianity  isn't 
true!"  he  had  exclaimed;  and  then:  "Damn  goo' 
wine. ' '  He  recalled  now,  with  shame,  how  he  had  re- 
peated these  observations  at  intervals.  He  wondered 
how  many  times?  Had  many  people  heard  him?  It 
wasn't  fair  to  Father  Collett.  .  .  .  What  was  it  that 
Father  Collett  had  said? — "I  pray  that  we  may  be 
found  worthy  .  .  .  worthy  to  walk  together  in  the 
sight  of  the  Lord. ' '  Yes.  Now  he  remembered  quite 
clearly.  And  about  religion:  "Religion  is  above 
what  the  world  calls  humanity  and  what  the  world 
calls  love."  "The  only  remedy,"  he  had  called  it; 
and  he  had  used  another  word.  ' '  The  only .  tran- 
scendence of  the  evils  of  the  soul,  of  the  life  that 
most  men  know."  Alec  reflected.  People  like 
Matcham  fought  against  what  they  would  call  abuses 
in  Life,  bad  conventions.  They  thought  they  could 
do  away  with  them,  and  make  everything  all  right. 
But  the  brute  gods  ...  it  wasn't  only  that  they  had 
the  conventions  and  abuses  on  their  side,  they  had 
Life  itself.  Love  that  made  life,  love  was  in  with 
them,  an  accomplice.  Wilfred  Vail  saw  that,  but 
"he  doesn't  know  it  as  I  do,  so  it  doesn't  really 
matter  to  him."  The  last  thing  Father  Collett  had 
said  was:  "Enter  thou  into  the  peace  of  our  Lord." 
Alec  assured  himself  that  he  would  never  leave  the 
Order.  Whatever  might  happen,  however  he  might 
feel,  he  would  never  leave  it.  The  strength  of  that 
resolve  would  be  something  to  live  in,  whether  he 
believed  in  anything  else  or  not.  Resolved,  he  walked 
on,  fronting  the  track  cut  out  before  him  by  his 


REFUGE  355 

maimed  revengeful  will.  In  refuge,  he  paid  homage ; 
paid  blindly,  now,  to  those  outraging  brute  forces 
their  greatest  tribute,  their  ultimate  tribute. 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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